


Dragonfly

by yeaka



Series: A Honeycomb Tree [1]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Animal Play, Collars, Dom/sub, Dominance, Dystopia, Half-Mirrorverse, Leashes, M/M, Master/Servant, Oral Sex, PWP, Pon Farr, Public Blow Jobs, Public Hand Jobs, Rimming, Soul Bond, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-22 21:59:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/918509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Empire rewards Jim's first year of service with his very own pet: a Vulcan named Spock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. *

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I’m creating an AU where the setting is similar to the mirror universe in some regards, but the characters are more similar to the regular ones. **Blanket warning** for the Terran Empire being a totalitarian dystopia with all its trickle-down issues, which tinges the servitude with hints of slavery. While this is written smutty and fluffily, please be aware of the problematic fantasy elements and your own comfort levels.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The second Jim sets foot on the Enterprise, he’s grinning like an idiot. The last mission went perfectly—not a scratch on the whole ship—but Starfleet called her in for examination anyway. She was docked, fit with a multitude of updates, and polished in ever centimeter, made to be the best of the fleet all over again. She shines beautifully in the starlight, and that’s not even the best part. 

He’s been her captain for one year, and the Empire is _very_ happy with him. He’s being given a present for his excellent service. His first servant—not just a shipside yeoman, but his own _personal_ one. 

He meets Bones halfway down the hall, who’s already done up in blue and clutching a PADD. He’s grumpy over something—always is—but that’s not a mood Jim can fathom at the moment. He greets his best friend with a cheery, “Ready for another year, Bones?”

“Great, another year of strange alien diseases and unknown contaminates and having to use that godforsaken transporter.” Bones rolls his eyes, then catches them on Jim. “What’re you smiling like that for?”

“Your gorgeous face,” Jim quips cheerily, stepping into the turbolift. Bones squints suspiciously at him while Jim grips the side and sets their destination: the bridge, though Bones swiftly corrects it to sickbay. 

Then he snorts, “Oh. Right. It’s been a year. You get a gift.”

“A _pet_ ,” Jim corrects, fighting the urge to stop the turbolift and gloat. He’s one of the very few Empire captains who doesn’t perpetually have an exotic being at their feet—proof of the Terran Empire’s galactic domination—and that’s something he’s been looking very forward to correcting. Bones smiles indulgently but clearly doesn’t share his enthusiasm. “Bah, you’re just jealous,” Jim decides.

“Nah, I had a personal servant once,” Bones corrects him, and when Jim’s eyebrows soar through the roof, Bones adds, “Christine. Pretty blonde thing. But the wife took her in the divorce—go figure.”

“Ah, bad luck.” Jim pats his friend on the back, fighting the urge to say, for the millionth time, that Bones really should find that wife and demand half his shit back. It won’t happen. “Maybe you can get a new one sometime?”

Bones waves his hand dismissively. Then the turbolift doors open for the level with sickbay, and Bones steps off, patting his shoulder on the way out. “Good luck; hope she’s not a hag.”

Jim wrinkles his nose as the turbolift doors close; only Bones could ruin his anticipation like that. The turbolift jolts upwards again, and Jim finds himself suddenly worrying if that might happen—maybe they’ll give him some ugly Klingon or an alien with no facial features or a giant gelatinous—

The turbolift doors open, and Jim strolls to the bridge, straightening himself back up and telling himself not to be stupid. He’s getting a _pet_. Whatever it is, it’s going to be _his_ , and that’s what matters.

“Keptin on zhe bridge!” his navigator announces as soon as he’s there, and Jim smiles and nods at the young ensign. He was the last piece; they should be ready to go out again. Jim sucks in a breath and looks down at his chair, where the Empire’s left his gift. 

It’s not a Klingon.

It looks like a male Vulcan, completely naked but wrapped haphazardly in a red silk ribbon, feet tied off at the side, hands tied behind his back, cock fastened against his stomach. The ends of the ribbon are tied around the creature’s eyes, in a full, neat bow. There’s a collar around the man’s neck, the metallic hoop in the front attached to a chain fastened to Jim’s chair. There’s a little plate on the front that reads, ‘ _Property of James T. Kirk._ ’

Jim’s breath is caught in his throat.

He’s mildly aware of the rest of the crew around him, waiting for the word to set sail. They’re quiet as he kneels down, eyes raking the man’s lithe but strong, pale figure. He looks about the same height as Jim with straight, jet-black hair and pointed ears sticking out the top of the ribbon. Jim reaches out to trace the tip of one with his index finger, and the Vulcan tilts his head slightly, but otherwise doesn’t move. 

First thing’s first. Jim leans over and tugs the side of the ribbon down a few centimeters, grinning. Too quietly for his crew to hear, he whispers into the Vulcan’s left ear, “What’s your name?”

“Whatever you wish, Sir,” the Vulcan replies with blank professionalism. His voice is low and level, but it sounds sensual to Jim’s hungry ears.

Fighting a chuckle, Jim asks, “What’s your given name?”

The Vulcan hesitates before saying only, “Spock.” 

Jim grins. Spock. The name of his new servant. He kisses the side of Spock’s head, close-mouthed bust lasting, before whispering, “I’m going to take good care of you, Spock.”

Spock has no reaction that Jim can see. He must be trained very well, or perhaps he’s just being _Vulcan_. Jim sits down in front of him and hooks a finger under his chin, tilting it up to get a good look at his pretty face. A long jaw, sharp cheekbones, bowed lips, sharp eyebrows... he’s very good-looking. Jim slowly tugs the bow loose, letting the ribbon fall from Spock’s eyes. They remain closed. 

Jim places a chaste kiss between them, and he can feel Spock’s brow twitch. When he pulls back, Spock slowly opens his eyes. They’re dark and deep. For a moment, Jim just looks into them. Somehow, he didn’t expect a personal servant to look so...

He can’t even describe it. He strokes beneath Spock’s chin while he thinks, and Spock subtly looks about him, hopefully finding him as pleasing as he finds Spock. He’s never had a complaint about his looks before, but there’s a first time for everything. Then the panel on his chair buzzes, and Jim has to get up, kissing Spock’s forehead again on the way. He sits down in the captain’s chair and opens the comm channel, Bones’ voice filing out of it. 

_“What’d you get? A Tellarite?”_

“Pfft, you wish,” Jim snorts. Spock’s sitting at his feet to the left of his chair, looking objectively up at him. The rest of the crew is going about their regular business, checking systems before they head out. “A Vulcan, actually.”

There’s a pause on other end, and then Bones asks, _“Do you want to request a more compatible species? They’d probably give you another candidate if you asked.”_

Jim frowns. Vulcans are rare, nearly an endangered species, and they aren’t often kept in the personal sect—probably because they’re largely emotionally inept. Sentient pets are supposed to be fun for their masters, docile and easy to break or eager to please or feisty, depending on the employer’s preference. But Jim already knows that he doesn’t want to trade, for reasons he’s not even sure he could explain. He looks at Spock, and he thinks, ‘ _perfect_.’ He tells Bones, “Nah, I like this one.” 

He can practically feel Bones rolling his eyes through the comm. _“You’ll be bored in a week.”_

“You’re a bitter old man, Bones.”

He closes the comm before Bones can answer. His eyes slide back to Spock, who’s watching him curiously. Smiling for no particular reason, Jim spreads his legs, his knee hitting Spock’s shoulder. Spock blinks at it, and Jim calls to Sulu, “Take us to warp.” And a minute later, the viewscreen’s a blur of white lines. 

Spock looks forward at it. Jim pats his head lightly on the far side, and Spock obediently leans his head against Jim’s leg. Jim shifts forward in his seat so he can pet Spock easier. His fingers slide so smoothly through that sleek hair, and Spock behaves perfectly, letting himself be stroked like a puppy. Jim can feel his arm along Jim’s leg, hand near Jim’s boot. It occurs to Jim that Sulu and Chekov, should they look around, have a better view than he does. He’ll have to get Spock some sort of clothes, however small. It’s not standard for a servant sent primarily for personal pleasure, but he’s not sure he wants to share that beautiful body with everyone. 

About ten minutes later, he’s in the exact same place, petting Spock softly and unable to think of anything else. It’s a good thing it’ll take them so long to reach the first planet they need to—evidently, he needs time to get this out of his system. 

He gently tugs Spock’s hair and spreads his legs even wider, crotch bulging just from the thought of what he’s about to do, and he orders, “Spock, suck me.”

Spock glances back at Jim, expression completely blank. Then he glances down and nods, submissively crawling around on hands and knees between Jim’s legs. Jim picks up the chain and drapes it over his thigh so it’s not pulling. Spock nuzzles his face into Jim’s crotch, and Jim moans instantly, already _so_ grateful. He’s going to be loyal to the Empire for the rest of his life. 

He can tell from Spock’s movements that he hasn’t done this often, and for some reason, that only makes it more endearing. Perhaps he wasn’t primarily trained for sex, although it would be silly of the Empire to think Jim would want anything else—his reputation speaks for itself, and the constants shows are probably one of the reasons his crew adores him so much. Jim lets Spock go slowly, pulling down his fly and glancing up every so often, as if searching for permission. As Spock awkwardly tries to pull his cock out of his underwear, Jim thumbs Spock’s cheek fondly and purrs, “Good boy.”

When it’s finally out, Spock stares at it, eyes a little wide. Jim knows he’s well endowed, and he tries not to smirk too broadly. Spock licks his lips, looking almost worried. While Spock steels himself, Jim glances up, and he catches Chekov peeking over at him, blushing. Chekov blushes harder at being caught, looking instantly back at his console. He’s not the only one clearly sneaking looks. Jim rarely discourages them from watching. This is the way things are done in the Empire—he’s a captain, and he gets to show off his power. 

As soon as Spock’s tongue brushes over the head of his cock, Jim’s head snaps down. Spock retracts his tongue a moment later, takes a breath, and starts again, hand holding up the base. He licks at the underside like a kitten, small and quick. Jim leans his elbow on the chair and leans over to cover his mouth with his hand, stifling his moan. Spock must still hear it, because he glances up, gaining confidence. He kisses the tip and runs his tongue through the slit, lapping at the foreskin. Then his lips open wider, tongue sliding back into his mouth. He hovers over Jim’s cock, and he pops over the head. Jim groans instantly. Spock suckles on the tip, still tonguing it, like it’s a savory treat. Jim’s tempted to shove him all the way down at once, but it’s their first time, and Jim wants to see what Spock does on his own. 

Spock waits with more patience than Jim has, and then, finally, he’s moving down, careful with his teeth and liberal with his tongue. He opens his jaw very wide—he has to in order to accommodate Jim’s considerable girth—and he keeps going, going, until Jim’s slipping down the back of his throat. Spock stops a few times, almost choking, but catching himself in time. Jim pushes Spock’s bangs up, wanting a clear look at his face. He looks _so_ good. Jim’s too lucky. 

Spock gets all the way to the very base, nose buried in Jim’s golden public hair. He pulls back a little before pushing back down, and Jim’s hard, painfully hard, getting harder. Spock starts to bob up and down like he was made for it. And then he starts to suck, and Jim’s head falls back—he’s in heaven. 

Just because Jim gets laid all the time doesn’t mean he doesn’t still enjoy it to the fullest. Spock isn’t doing anything special, but it’s clear he’s still trying to please, and he’s definitely pleasing. There’s something about him that makes Jim’s cock twitch, makes his balls tighten, makes him want to shove Spock to the floor and fuck his pretty face wildly. But he already promised to treat Spock right, and he meant it. He watches Spock slide up and down, up and down, sucking gorgeously, eyes half-lidded and nearly shut. Jim mumbles, “Look at me,” because he already loves those eyes. 

Spock looks up at him. Spock keeps going. His cheeks might be slightly tinted green. Vulcans have green blood, right? Jim read that somewhere. Or maybe Bones told him. Spock’s lips are still pink, and they feel _so_ soft around his shaft. Jim’s orgasm is building faster than he would like. He’s aware his breathing is coming faster and faster. If he weren’t on the bridge, he’d probably be spilling a slew of dirty talk.

But he’s on the bridge, so he grits his teeth to stifle the moan when he comes, balls tightening and spilling into Spock’s mouth. Spock keeps his lips clamped firmly around it, the hot cum hitting the back of his throat and spilling right down. Spock swallows instantly, and Jim groans louder at the feel of that. Spock sucks and sucks at him until everything’s out, and then Spock repeatedly swallows, until Jim’s sure every last drop is in his stomach. 

Spock doesn’t pull off after. He glances up at Jim through his lashes, and Jim gives his forehead a little shove. Spock slips off, hair slightly mussed from Jim playing with it. Spock licks Jim’s cock clean and tucks it back into Jim’s underwear. He does up Jim’s fly, and he places a short kiss on Jim’s crotch. 

Then he sits back on his heels—a good dog waiting for more orders.

Jim shifts his legs back together, feeling spent and good. He reaches down to hook a finger into Spock’s collar, and Spock tilts his head back, lifting up as Jim draws him closer. Jim pulls Spock to climb into his lap, legs spread around Jim’s, knees digging into the sides of the captain’s chair. Just to be sure he didn’t miss anything, he calls over Spock’s shoulder, “How’re we doing, Lieutenant?”

“On course and nothing unusual to report, Sir,” Sulu tells him.

Jim smiles back at Spock. Time to examine his present properly, then. Spock’s still mostly wrapped in the ribbon, and Jim takes a bit of time to peel it off, untwisting it from Spock’s torso and thighs. Spock’s unresponsive and obedient, letting Jim even peel the part binding his cock to his chest. Jim grins down at it as it falls into his lap, slightly hard. It’s very long, perhaps a little bit thinner than Jim’s, with green veins and a yellowish hue. Jim strokes it absently while he looks up at Spock’s face. Spock doesn’t protest the touch. His hands rest on his thighs. Jim takes them by each wrist and places them on his shoulders. 

Then he reaches around to Spock’s back and gently pushes it forward, bringing Spock in. He kisses Spock on the mouth and snakes his tongue out, licking at the outline of Spock’s bow lips. He licks along the crease a few times before Spock’s mouth falls open, and then Jim’s sliding in, enjoying it already. Spock tastes strange but pleasant—warm, moist, and with a bit of cinnamon or vanilla or something in between. He traces Spock’s teeth and the roof of Spock’s mouth, lightly flicking over Spock’s hesitant tongue and sucking it. He wants to memorize every little part. 

When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t want to. But he has to be a real captain at some point, and with a sigh, he rearranges Spock. He drapes Spock’s legs over his, holding Spock’s body at his side, letting Spock’s head rest on his shoulder. Then he watches the stars out his viewscreen, feeling like the luckiest captain alive.


	2. *

Spock doesn’t look quite comfortable at first, so Jim arranges him better. But then it just looks forced, so Jim chuckles, “Can you just lounge about like a prince?”

Spock lifts an eyebrow, as though he finds the metaphor so flimsy it’s difficult to grasp. But he visibly takes a deep breath and clearly tries to relax, limbs shifting slightly. His head’s on the pillows of Jim’s bed, legs spread and arms out to the side. The chain’s folded on Jim’s nightstand, unattached, but the collar’s still on. Jim just wants to _look_ at him again, take in every beautiful centimeter. Perfect. Jim strolls the perimeter of the bed and lets his fingertips trace the contours of Spock’s body. 

“You’re gorgeous,” Jim sighs as he reaches the wall, the back of his fingers brushing along Spock’s cheek. Spock leans subtly into the movement, eyes searching Jim curiously: another statement he doesn’t understand. Jim wonders absently if he’s ever heard it before. On a whim, Jim asks, “You’re too old for this to be your first contract—why were you sold?”

“I am a half-breed,” Spock informs him levelly, clearly waiting on the reaction. 

Jim lifts an eyebrow. “Half-human, then?” It couldn’t be anything else. Spock nods. Jim tries not to let his smirk reach his eyes. He likes humans, of course, especially when it comes to just the right amount of emotional response. But he likes exotic things too, and he’s glad Spock looks Vulcan. He says, “That doesn’t change anything. You’re still gorgeous.”

If Jim were a cadet, not an experienced captain, he might’ve missed the small flicker in Spock’s eyes. Surprise. Jim sits down on the side of the bed and leans in for a sideways kiss, holding Spock’s chin in place. Spock lifts up a few centimeters to help. 

The kiss is small and sweet. When Jim pulls back, he nuzzles happily into the side of Spock’s face before straightening. Then he’s back to stroking Spock’s cheek again, sighing contentedly. “Are you hungry?”

“No, master.”

“Jim.”

Spock’s eyebrows knit together. Stifling a laugh, Jim repeats, “Jim. Or Captain, if that’s more comfortable for you. ‘Master’ might’ve seemed hot at first, but... I want something a little more personal.”

Spock nods and obediently repeats, “No, Captain.”

“Neither am I,” Jim says. “We’ll eat later, then. I can’t wait to feed you.” Just thinking of holding food to those pretty lips and having that pink tongue lick his fingers clean makes Jim shiver in anticipation. He won’t do that every time, of course. And he’s not going to leave a dog bowl of food and water by the door like he knows many do. He’ll give Spock free run of the water dispenser and Synthesizer, but for the first time... he’s going to have fun. 

For now, he climbs off the bed and wanders over to the set of drawers on the far wall next to the bathroom door, fishing through them for a spare PADD. He sorts through it as he strolls back to the bed, setting in some rudimentary mathematical equations relative to starship functions. Vulcans have a strict educational system, and it’s likely Spock will have had some basic schooling, but Empire-servants rarely have the means for higher institutions; the economy’s too imbalanced for that. There are some lower-class sections that don’t go through any of it, and some owners like that—it means their pet will never read their mail or interfere in important matters. Jim’s not like that. 

Jim sits back down on the edge, next to his pillow, murmuring to himself, “I always wanted an intelligent servant.” Finished, he passes the PADD to Spock and orders, “Try to solve this.” He says ‘try,’ so that when Spock fails, it won’t seem like a disappointment to him.

Spock takes the PADD gingerly, then casts an odd glance at Jim. Jim tries to smile warmly, encouragingly. Then Spock’s fingers fly across the screen, and he passes it back: everything righted.

Jim stares at the screen for a few seconds. Not only did Spock solve the equation, but he did so with remarkable speed. Jim brings up another problem, more complicated. Spock solves it just as quickly as before, still watching Jim curiously. Jim grins very wide, and he lowers the PADD to pet Spock’s hair and croon, “You’re a smart thing, aren’t you?”

Spock doesn’t move. His cheeks might turn a little green. Jim tosses the PADD onto his nightstand next to the leash, and he nods at the little table in the corner, sporting a 3D chess set. “Do you know how to play?” Spock nods, but he looks almost... nervous.

“Don’t go easy on me,” Jim orders, because even though he’s positive he can beat anyone, he wants to do it honestly. Spock doesn’t move. Jim, happy that he’ll get to use his chess set again, tugs lightly at the front of Spock’s collar. Spock sits up, scooting to the edge of the bed as Jim gets up to push the table closer. He’s only got one chair in here, so he sits in it and has Spock sit on the bed. He doesn’t miss the quick flare of light in Spock’s eyes at the chess set—he thinks that Spock must like this game. He moves the pieces back into starting position, having Spock play white while he plays black. 

It becomes apparent very quickly that Spock not only knows how to play, but he’s particularly good at it. He’s a challenge, and though Jim takes the first piece, Spock takes two after. He hesitates each time, as though expecting Jim to be angry with him for his success, but Jim’s delighted. Halfway through, Jim orders, just to be sure that Spock tries his hardest, “Beat me.” ...If Spock fails, there won’t be any consequences, but he doesn’t need to say that. Spock’s expression hardens into determination, like he’s suddenly proving his worth. He plays relentlessly from that point on. 

He wins. 

He actually wins. He doesn’t say, “Checkmate,” like he’s supposed to, but Jim belatedly sees it. Jim leans back in his chair, mildly shocked. It was a close match. But he lost. He actually _lost_. That hasn’t happened in a long time, and Scotty’s still bragging about that one time because of how rare it was. Jim’s not sure he’ll be playing with any of his other crewmembers anytime soon; he may’ve just found the perfect opponent. 

Spock sits up very straight, like he fully expects to be punished or even fired for his victory but is proud of it anyway. Jim smiles broadly, saying, “Congratulations.”

Spock says, “Thank you, Captain.”

Jim asks, “Do you like learning? Being smart?”

Spock frowns. He’ll have to shake this mistrust sooner or later. He says slowly, “...Yes, Captain.”

“And what would you like to study, if you’d had that opportunity?”

“...The sciences.”

Jim nods, climbing out of his chair. He walks around the small table, moving it back into the corner again, leaving the game how it is. Then he’s on Spock, lightly pushing him back down into the bed, shifting him until he’s lying in the pillows again. Jim descends on his face, kissing it softly all over and ordering, “Tell me something about your childhood.” He kisses all along Spock’s jaw, up to the top of his cheekbone and over to the shell of his ear. Spock sucks in a breath.

He says quietly, “I... was born on Vulcan.”

“I was born on Earth,” Jim says. “Tell me more.” He nips at the tip of Spock’s ear and trails back down, licking and nibbling down Spock’s neck, and he undoes the collar when he gets there, tossing it to the nightstand. Spock looks shocked for a moment, and Jim kisses his lips. Jim’ll put it back on next time they’re going to be in public—the Empire’s too tyrannical to not display even civilian rank—but for now, he caresses the curve of Spock’s throat and says, “I order you to tell me if I do anything you don’t like; I promise you there will be no consequences for it.” It’s not something he ever thought he’d say to his own servant, but... Spock’s _different_ than he thought. He wants to make Spock feel good too. He licks across Spock’s collarbone, waiting.

Spock’s breathing just a little quicker, just a faint, tiny bit. “I... had a pet sehlat.”

“Was it cute?” Jim chuckles, kissing his way to one of Spock’s nipples. He’s now draped over Spock’s body, and he sits up only long enough to pull his shirts over his head, so when he lowers back down, it’s skin on skin. He doesn’t miss the way Spock glances at his chest, or the way Spock’s cheeks turn ever more green, or the way Spock’s eyes linger on his now half-exposed body. He can feel Spock’s completely exposed cock twitch against his stomach. Jim fights the urge to smirk, repeating, because it seems Spock’s been distracted, “Was your sehlat cute?”

Spock opens his mouth, looking like he wants to apologize. Then Jim sucks the nipple he’s been licking into his mouth, loving the way the small nub hardens between his teeth. Spock breathes, “I thought so.” Jim grins around his mouthful, releasing it with a wet pop to tongue the nub. 

“I bet you were adorable and everyone wanted to be your friend,” Jim coos, kissing his way over to the other nipple. He keeps shooting looks at Spock’s face, and at first, he thinks the wince is a result of him biting the second nipple too hard. He loosens, sucking on it soothingly. 

But Spock says quietly, “I was... not well liked.”

Jim releases the nipple, laving it over, frowning. “Why?” Then Jim answers himself. “Ah. They were jealous of how pretty and smart you were.”

Spock lifts a hand to his mouth. The other is lying, stretched out, in the sheets. Jim thinks Spock’s embarrassed. He feels a little bad about it, but he doesn’t apologize for the presumptions. He kisses his way down Spock’s taut stomach, dipping a tongue into his bellybutton. Spock gasps and murmurs, “For being a half-breed.”

Jim snorts. “They might’ve said that, but they were jealous.” He nips a short trail down to Spock’s dark pubic hair, nuzzling into it before bypassing the now semi-hard cock jutting up from it. He licks down Spock’s left thigh and lightly bites the sensitive skin, admiring the heady, keen noise he gets from it. Apparently that expressionless mask doesn’t hold up well under certain types of stimulants, Jim notes. He licks softly over his own teeth marks, kissing them until they fade, then trailing back down. “Tell me something else.”

As Jim kisses Spock’s knee and licks down his calf, Spock struggles for breath and says, “I... I received good grades in my early childhood...”

“Of course you did,” Jim croons, kissing over Spock’s ankle and licking at his toes, not caring that Spock’s been barefoot around his ship. If there’s one thing Jim loves, it’s his ship. He has the sneaking suspicion Spock’s going to make a close second soon. He shifts over to the other foot and gives it the same treatment, noting the way Spock’s toes curl sheepishly. He kisses up Spock’s leg and listens to Spock’s laboured breath.

“Once, I ran away... into the desert... I wanted to prove myself...”

“How reckless,” Jim sighs, reaching back up Spock’s right thigh. Jim ran away too many times to count as a child, but for a Vulcan, it seems... strange. 

“I was punished,” Spock finishes. “I have been more controlled since.”

Jim lifts up Spock’s dick, so he can get a look at the curve of Spock’s cheeks and his tight balls. Jim wonders absently what a reckless Spock would be like; it seems so strange to think of this submissive creature beneath him as anything but reasonable. Spock’s sac is entirely hairless, yellowish with a slightly pink tint, taut and ripe for the taking. Jim sticks his tongue out and leans forward for a little taste, finding it oddly exotic. Not quite salty like a human would be, maybe a little sweet. It’s almost... pleasant. Jim licks it again, and he doesn’t miss the muffled moan that sounds overhead. Grinning, he sucks one ball into his mouth, rolling it gently around on his tongue before giving the other similar treatment. Spock seems to have given up on talking. 

So Jim purrs, “Tell me what you wanted to be before this—you don’t seem the social sect type.” And he shifts his hand around the front so he can run his tongue up the underside of Spock’s dick, and Spock’s hips twitch happily. Spock bites off a guttural sort of groan, trembling to get more. Jim lavishes his cock with licks and kisses, wanting to see his new pet _writhing_ in pleasure. 

“Ah... I...” Spock starts but has to stop a moment later, fighting to remain coherent under the attention. Clearly, his training didn’t start early. “I always assumed I... I would be some form of servant... given my... my heritage... and the other children would tell me as much...”

“Little beasts,” Jim growls into Spock’s shaft. “Presumptions are illogical. And bad Vulcans land in this too; I bet they’re dry yeomen to freight traders now or perpetual ensigns.” Jim looks up to grin, purring lovingly into Spock’s dick, “ _You_ get to be the pet of a _captain._ ”

“I... am honored, J... Jim...” Spock breathes, full of hesitation. Jim smiles approvingly and strokes his hips, licking up to the head of his now fully-hard cock. Masters don’t often pleasure their toys, of course; it’s supposed to be a one-way street. But Jim takes pride in the way he makes his lovers feel. He kisses the tip, tongue running through the slit, and Spock arches off the bed so that Jim has to hold his hips down. Eyes scrunched shut, Spock moans, “I am sorry...”

“Don’t be sorry; you’re _gorgeous_ like this,” Jim hisses. “But you didn’t answer my question.” He lazily traces his tongue down the side while he waits. 

Spock pants, “I wanted to... to serve on a starship...” Jim smirks. Something in his power; something he can work with, not now, but perhaps sometime in the future, if Spock’s good. If Spock always wanted to see the stars, now he can watch them every day out the viewscreen and every night out the window in his quarters. It’s one reason to take the easier-to-reach goal of servitude than enlisting, and it doesn’t come with getting blood on your hands when the Empire calls for it. Jim rewards Spock’s answer by opening his lips and popping the head of Spock’s dick into his mouth, earning an immediate cry of pleasure. Jim sucks on it, staying high, and he strokes the shaft with one hand, holding Spock down with the other. His own spit works as lube, and Spock becomes impossibly hard in his grip. 

Spock’s skin is nothing short of delicious, and there’s something about it that Jim wants to hold onto. If Bones walked in on him right now, he’d probably get scolded. If an agent of the Empire’s private sector walked in on him, he’d probably lose Spock entirely. But he doesn’t care—he’s alone, and he’s the captain, and he’s the master, and he’ll please his pet if he wants. Spock looks _very_ pleased, and it’s difficult for Jim to let go. But he pulls off, and Spock whines softly, then shuts his mouth, as though ashamed. Jim pets his stomach and purrs, “I love your voice.”

He was going to move right down, right onto more, but instead, he finds himself climbing up Spock’s body, half draped over it, head resting in the pillows next to Spock. Spock turns to look at him. Jim rubs their noses together and says quietly, “I want to make love to you. Will you let me?”

“Yes,” Spock answers automatically, almost too fast. Jim knows Spock would never say no, most would never risk a position, any position, aboard the Empire’s greatest ship, but when he looks at those half-lidded eyes, pupils blown, he thinks it might not be entirely objective. That’s all Jim can ask for. He kisses Spock on the lips, tilting his head, and Spock’s mouth opens automatically. 

Spock ruts his body into Jim, dick rubbing into Jim’s crotch, still clothed. Jim smirks into the kiss. Either Spock’s extremely sexual for a Vulcan, or he isn’t used to being stimulated like this. Somehow, Jim thinks it’s the latter. 

He parts their lips and purrs, “Do you want to face me?” Spock nods, eyes running down Jim’s body. Jim adds in response, “You can touch me.”

Spock’s hands tentatively reach for Jim’s chest, smoothing over it. Chuckling, Jim kisses Spock’s cheek and makes his way back down, slipping out of Spock’s touch, until Spock’s fingertips are just barely brushing through his short hair. He kisses his way past Spock’s dick again, placing a few licks on the shaft to keep it sturdy and waylaying past that, between Spock’s cheeks. Spock helpfully bends his knees and draws his legs up, ass lifting slightly to give Jim better access. Jim kisses one cheek in thanks, and Spock mumbles, “J-Captain...”

“Actually, I liked Jim better,” Jim chuckles. “Don’t go back now.”

Spock repeats, “Jim, are you going to...?”

“Lick your ass? Why yes, I am.”

Spock doesn’t say anything, but Jim’s sure his cheeks must be very, very green. Jim supposes there’s nothing logical about sticking your tongue into someone’s asshole, but servants are never as clean as the day they’re delivered into a new contract. And Jim wants to know every scent and taste and picture and feel of every part of Spock’s body. Jim pries Spock’s cheeks apart with his thumbs, his own body almost falling half off the bed now, legs curled to the side. He shifts around a bit to find Spock’s hole, small and puckered. It’s a rosy sort of pink, looking a little smaller and brighter than a human’s, but otherwise very similar. He sticks the tip of his tongue against it, and it twitches immediately. Jim chuckles and kisses it, open-mouthed. 

Then he says, “There’s a bottle of lube in the top drawer of the nightstand—can you pass it to me?”

Spock’s hands leave his hair, body twisting slightly. Jim just stares at Spock’s entrance while he hears the contents of his drawer rustling around; he can’t look away. He has to when the bottle’s passed to him, small and full of a clear liquid. He places the bottle down and asks, “Can you hold your legs back more?” So Spock holds his knees to his chest, legs in the air, while Jim groans at the new, better view. Spock has a great ass. Jim knew that from walking here from the bridge, but seeing it up close like this... Jim leans forward to bite it gently; he can’t resist. He doesn’t leave a mark, but he does revel in the taste. Spock’s trembling lightly, almost unnoticeably. But Jim’s a master in the bedroom, and he sees it. 

He spits on Spock’s twitching hole and leans down to rub it in with his lips, licking and sucking. He listens to each of Spock’s reactions, savoring them all, and he pushes his tongue in until it pops inside. Spock makes an undignified squeaking sound. Jim smirks and pistons his tongue in and out, fucking Spock with his mouth. He reaches up to wrap a hand around Spock’s shaft, finding it just as hard as before. Apparently, Spock likes having his ass licked. Jim shoves his tongue in as far as it’ll go. Spock’s ass is insanely tight, squeezing at him, warm and pulsing. The furrowed hole convulses around him, and Jim only pulls out because his own pants are now painfully tight. 

When his mouth is gone, he spreads a liberal amount of lube on his hand. Then he pushes one slicked-up finger inside, and it goes easily after the tongue, although it takes a few extra pushes to lodge it up all the way. Spock hisses and Jim pulls back, trying to be gentle. He’s careful not to tear or scratch. He slides in and out a few times before adding a second finger, even wetter, prying inside and then scissoring it open. Spock’s hole stretches stubbornly, reluctantly, but beautifully. The bigger it gets, the more Jim wants to lick it, and he does kiss the side a few times while he opens Spock up as much as possible. By the time he gets to three fingers, Spock’s making that keening noise again and thrusting his hips subtly off the mattress. Jim keeps going, until he hears the faint, “ _Jim_...”

Jim buries his face in Spock’s crotch, moaning _hard_. He wants Spock so badly he can hardly stand it. The Empire’s so, so good to him. He couldn’t have asked for a better pet. He kisses Spock’s dick one last time and gets back up on his hands and knees, climbing over Spock to press their mouths together. Spock’s legs wrap around his torso, Spock’s hands climbing up to his shoulders, running over his back. Jim opens his fly and pulls his cock out, feeling around for the lube. He slicks his cock up without even looking, intent on just Spock’s mouth. Spock’s starting to kiss him with more and more fervor, until it’s far more passionate than he’d expect from a Vulcan. Than he’d expect from a pet. Spock kisses like he means it, like he _wants_ it personally, not just for the sake of pleasing an employer, and that makes Jim go wild on him. Their tongues fight in the middle, and Jim almost wants to climb onto Spock’s dick just to give his little Vulcan a reward. But he already prepared that pretty hole and he wants it so badly...

He lines them up easily, like his cock knows where it’s supposed to go, and then he’s nudging at Spock’s entrance, tongue still in Spock’s mouth. He only pulls back so he can see Spock’s reaction. He needs to know if he goes too fast, if he hurts Spock at all. He leans his forehead against Spock’s, and Spock tries to lean up to kiss him, but Jim turns his head away, murmuring, “Need to know if I hurt you...” So Spock just kisses his cheek and settles back down, breathing heavily. Jim can feel the tip of Spock’s dick smearing precum across his stomach. 

Jim gives a little thrust and pops himself inside, and Spock gasps, arching up. Jim pets his face and makes soothing sounds, pulling mostly out and pushing forward again, a little harder this time. Spock’s so, so tight, and even wet, it’s hard for Jim to get further inside. But he pushes, trying. It feels like Spock’s trying to suck him in further, and when Jim looks at Spock’s dark eyes, looking back at his, he thinks that just might be the case. Jim slides a tiny bit out and pushes a lot further in, over and over again, until he’s as far as he can go and he’s panting just as hard as Spock is. Spock clenches around him. Jim wonders faintly if Spock wants to memorize him as much as he wants to memorize Spock.

Then he slides out and adjusts, shifting back in, making Spock’s teeth grit. Another with the same reaction, breath making Spock’s chest flutter. On the third thrust, Jim finds it—Spock throws his head back and screams, thighs tightening around Jim’s sides. Jim moans and starts to pull out and slam into that same spot, over and over again. He keeps one arm next to Spock’s face, and the other hand snakes down between their bodies to grab the heavy cock against his stomach. He squeezes it, and Spock whimpers wonderfully. 

“You’re _so_ hot,” Jim moans, hips soon moving of their own accord. He pounds Spock into the mattress harder than he means to, and Spock eagerly pushes up into him, cock stiff in his grasp. Jim nuzzles into the side of Spock’s face and kisses it over and over again. “You’re _perfect_. Everything I want. I’m going to take such good care of you...” Jim breaks off in a needy groan; Spock’s started kissing the side of his neck and clawing at his shoulders, setting his skin on fire. He rewards Spock by pumping his shaft up and down in time with the thrusts, and Spock releases a feral growl. It makes Jim fuck him even harder, wanting nothing more than to be buried to the hilt in his pet’s delicious body. He wants to fill Spock up and mark him thoroughly, wants to fuck Spock in his captain’s chair and across a table in the mess hall and over by the warp core in Engineering. He wants to fuck Spock everywhere in every position, hear every possible noise come out of Spock’s body, feel it all in his arms. The pleasure’s zeroing in on him until he’s seeing stars. 

He jerks his head to the side to find Spock’s again, and it’s back to mouth on mouth, wet and heady. He fucks Spock with his tongue and his cock at the same time, and Spock’s surging up to meet him, suddenly so responsive, so virile. It’s like Spock’s snapped already. Jim wants to make him feel _so good_.

Jim can feel himself getting close far too quickly. He pumps Spock’s dick harder and grinds into his pleasure spot, desperately wanting him to come first. Jim wants him to explode in ecstasy, to feel as wanton and needy and desperate as Jim does. Jim kisses him so thoroughly and pounds into his tight hole and gives the best handjob imaginable. Spock’s writhing and panting beneath him, scraping at his shoulders. If the windows were any closer, they’d be fogging up. 

Then it’s too much, and Spock _shrieks_ , the noise only half stifled by Jim’s mouth, half released into the air over the sounds of skin-on-skin and heavy breathing. He arches all into Jim’s body, and his cock twitches and bursts in Jim’s hand, spilling over his fingers and across both their chests. Spock’s ass spasms wildly around Jim’s cock—an amazing feeling. Jim comes barely a minute later, fully sheathed and _loving it_. He roars his release, filling Spock right up and still jerking Spock’s shaft and thumbing the head. 

And then he’s collapsing, a sticky, sweaty mess, right on top of his pet. Vulcans are supposed to be strong. Jim doesn’t move right away. He’s still fully inside, and all he can do is murmur, “You’re amazing,” into Spock’s ear. 

After a minute, Spock breathes, “Thank you... Jim.”

* * *

Jim sleeps better that night than he has in a long, long time. He has brilliant dreams of wild first contacts and strange new worlds, where everyone willingly submits to the Empire and he’s promoted to Admiral but gets to keep his ship. He’s still humming along with the trumpets when his eyes slowly blink open, the darkness all around him. 

The dream fades, and he yawns, stretching out in bed and burying his face in the white pillows. The shutters are half down around his window, just the faintest bit of starlight leaking through. There’s something about his bed that doesn’t feel quite right, and as Jim adjusts in it, he realizes that it’s too big. Too empty. 

He sits up, groggily rubbing at his eyes. He didn’t fall asleep alone. He already bathed Spock and fed him and gave him water; there shouldn’t be any reason for Spock to have left Jim’s side in the middle of the night. He’s about to climb off his bed when he notices the pale body curled up on his floor, face turned away from the bed. Spock’s shivering slightly, evidently not yet aware that he’s allowed to adjust the temperature. Jim makes a mental note to up it anyway and just learn to live with it; he’s sure Vulcans like higher temperatures. 

Leaning over the bed, Jim lightly strokes Spock’s shoulder, wanting to test if he’s awake. Spock looks up over it, eyes glinting sleepily. Jim whispers to the room, “Computer, lights, five percent, temperature increase, five percent.” The computer makes a beeping sound and does as it’s told. Spock continues to look at him. 

Jim murmurs, “What’re you doing on the floor?” Then he frowns. “You don’t want to sleep with me?”

Eyebrows knitting together, Spock sits up, turning towards Jim. He says, just as quietly, “Pets are not meant to be on furniture when they are not being used.”

Jim snorts. Figures. “That’s silly. C’mon, get back in here.” He offers a hand, and Spock takes it, eyes a little wide. Jim pulls him back onto the bed, lifting up the covers to help slide him under it, trying not to stare at Spock’s backside too much—he needs his sleep so he can be alert on the bridge in a few hours. Spock’s a tempting threat to that, but Jim wants to hold him anyway. Spock scoots back into the middle of the bed, and Jim wraps around his back, spooning him tight. Spock’s cold, and Jim kisses the back of his neck, wanting to warm him up. Jim rubs his legs and feet under the blankets, even though it makes himself shiver. Spock fidgets but ultimately leans into it, clearly liking Jim’s body heat. Jim’s tends to be naturally warm. 

When Spock feels less like a bucket of Vulcan-shaped ice, Jim settles back down. He yawns, and then he remembers and repeats, “Would you rather sleep on the floor than with me, or in a sleeping bag or something?”

Spock says, “No.” And he shuffles around, rolling onto his side so that he’s facing Jim. It’s sort of like he wants to snuggle into Jim but doesn’t know how or has too much pride. Jim smiles and exhales. 

“Tell me if there’s anything you need.”

Spock blinks. Jim pecks him on the lips and mumbles, “Computer, lights off.” And then they’re back in the mostly-darkness. Jim can still feel Spock in his arms, and it’s the greatest feeling.


	3. *

Jim wakes up earlier than usual, but for once, he doesn’t go back to sleep. He orders the lights on slowly, bit by bit, so as not to startle Spock. But Spock seems to already be awake, though he stays curled up in Jim’s arms, eyes half-lidded. He’s beautiful in the synthetic early light. Jim has the striking urge to see him on Earth in the glow of the sunrise. 

Instead, Jim kisses Spock’s forehead and mumbles groggily, “How’d you sleep?” He breaks out into a yawn a second later. 

Spock waits for the yawn to finish, then says, “Well.”

Jim says, “Good,” and kisses him again. He’s got morning breath. Jim probably does too. It makes him smile anyway. 

He pushes off the blankets and wanders over to the drawers, pulling out some boxers. He should probably shower, but he’ll have to do it after his shift—he figures he’s going to use up every last bit of his limited spare time on Spock. He finds himself staring absently down at his underwear drawer, wondering if he should put any on Spock. On the one hand, he doesn’t want others staring at Spock’s ripe ass and full package. On the other hand, _he_ wants to stare at Spock’s ripe ass and full package. He wishes he had some sort of faux leather pants aboard, but he doesn’t. 

He’s got some swim trunks, khaki and a little baggy, and he gestures at Spock. Looking confused, Spock slips out of the blankets and wanders over. Jim makes a mental note to put the collar back on—it wouldn’t do to get caught without that; Jim’s supposed to be the pinnacle of Empire captain dominance. When Spock reaches him, Jim bends down and picks up one of Spock’s ankles, pulling him into the trunks. Then Jim slides them up Spock’s legs, noting how Spock’s dick isn’t entirely flaccid. His isn’t either. It’s not so much morning wood as the inevitability of waking up with a hot man in his arms. 

Once the trunks are on, Jim steps back to examine his handiwork. They look strange on Spock—too wide at the bottom and... too casual. Spock says dully, “Pets are not meant to wear clothing.”

Still looking at the trunks, Jim asks, “Are you adverse to wearing clothing?”

“No.”

“Then shush. Your body’s just for me; I don’t need the whole crew ogling it.” Jim glances up with a smile. Spock’s got one eyebrow lifted, as though _Jim’s_ being the brat. It’s a small show of sass, but Jim finds it amusing. He decides anyway, “Nah, those aren’t right.” And he pulls them off a moment later, nearly getting hit in the face with a semi-hard cock as it snaps out of its confines. Jim resists the urge to kiss it; he needs to figure out a game plan before he gets side tracked. 

Playing dress-up with Spock is far too fun. Jim tries several more things on him before resorting to standard-issue, black Starfleet uniform pants, pressed down the front. They fit almost perfectly, perhaps a centimeter too short. The two of them are the same height, but it feels like Spock has long legs. Jim tries to put a shirt on him, and it’s a little loose. 

Then Jim decides that’s overkill and pulls it off. Spock would probably look adorable in one of his sweaters. But that might look even more conspicuous on the bridge, and it might make Spock uncomfortable—it’s never wise to overstep the bounds of one’s station, especially on an Empire ship. And besides, Jim needs some form of eye candy.

In the end, he leaves Spock bare-chested and barefoot. Spock seems to find this perfectly acceptable—but then, he did with being naked, too. 

Spock’s irresistible. When the pants are perfectly smoothed into place and done up, front bulging slightly from all of Jim’s attentions, Jim sticks both his index fingers in the hem. He tugs Spock forward by the waistband, kissing him fiercely. Spock responds surprisingly easily, considering how stock-still he was a minute ago. 

Then Jim’s spinning them around, throwing Spock down onto the bed, murmuring into him, “I could fuck you all day long.” 

Jim lifts up to crawl over to the nightstand, and when he returns, he finds Spock arching an eyebrow and declaring, “That is extremely unlikely, as male human stamina requires a considerable amount of time between each round of copulation to replenish.”

For some reason, the words make Jim grin from ear to ear. He pats Spock’s hips, and Spock obediently rolls over onto his stomach, back curved sensually in the bed, legs bent at the knees, feet in the air. Spock rests his head on the side, just below the pillows, and he looks up at Jim with a blank look. 

Jim gets behind him, spreads his legs, and bends down to kiss his cheek. “You’re hilarious.”

“I am pleased you find my logic amusing.” If Jim didn’t know better, he’d say there was sarcasm in that. Not so docile, after all. Maybe Spock’s realizing he can push the boundaries with Jim without risking the hob. Jim’s just glad he feels comfortable enough to speak somewhat freely. If Spock wants to test the water, Jim wants him to paddle all the way across their ocean. 

Jim scrunches down the pants he’d put so perfectly on, leaving them bunched around Spock’s thighs. Spock’s ass looks even fuller and rounder behind the fabric, the bottom of his ass cheeks caught on it and pouting over, perky but taut. Jim leans down to kiss one cheek and smack the other, and Spock has a sharp intake of breath. Blood rushes up to fill Jim’s hand print, and he kisses over it while he smacks the other: even treatment. Then he nibbles at it lightly, listening to the faint mewling sound it draws out of Spock’s mouth. If Jim had the time, he’d lie here and worship this ass straight through to gamma shift. 

But he has a starship to run, and he has to move along. He pops open the bottle of lube and pours an ample amount into his palm, sliding that hand up between Spock’s cheeks. His index finger rubs lube into the crack, probably a little cold, but trapped between those cheeks, he’s sure it’ll warm right up. He probes a bit to find Spock’s hole, and it trembles under his touch. A bit of rubbing, and the puckered muscles part. Jim slips his finger inside, slowly getting up to the knuckle.

When he glances up, he finds Spock looking back at him over one arched shoulder, eyes burning. Jim smirks at them, kissing Spock’s ass again while he works. He pistons his finger in and out, searching around for the right spot. He immediately knows when he’s found it: Spock flinches, trying to bite off a sharp intake of breath. Jim curls his fingers into it, and Spock groans, face ducking out of view. Chuckling, Jim works in a second finger and goes immediately for that spot. Spock’s hips jerk off the bed—Jim holds them down. 

Then Jim reaches under to palm Spock’s heavy dick, and that earns him a sharp keening sound and another twitch of the hips. Jim pumps it dryly while he stretches Spock’s ass open; he wants to mix enough pain with the pleasure so that this lasts as long as he wants it too. Spock’s already fully erect, and that either means he’s easily aroused (which seems highly unlikely at this point) or he genuinely wants to have sex with Jim in at least some capacity. Maybe it’s just physical, but it’s something. That mere thought makes Jim just as hard, and Jim practically moans, “Say when.”

“When?” Spock mumbles, voice a little hoarse. Because it’s obviously a question, Jim doesn’t take it as the ‘go’ sign he desperately wants. He retracts his hand from Spock’s dick, half too keep Spock from coming and half so he can take his own cock out. 

“When you want me to fuck you,” Jim mumbles. It’s a little surprising that Spock wouldn’t know that phrase—Jim already knows he’s not Spock’s first. (Although who would ever give _this_ up?)

To Jim’s surprise, Spock nearly pants, “And if I do not say when until after your shift has officially begun?”

Groaning loudly and fucking Spock’s ass wildly with his fingers, Jim hisses, “Then I’ll go to work and leave you here like this, open and wanting.” He’d do it, too—and wouldn’t that be a lovely thing to daydream about on the bridge? But then he’d be sporting an erection all day, and now that he’s got someone just for his sexual release, it wouldn’t really make sense to pull aside Sulu or Chekov and fuck them in the turbolift. ...Now that he’s got Spock, he’s not sure he’d want to, anyway...

Obviously, Spock doesn’t grasp the whole ‘when’ concept. Because he doesn’t say it. Instead, he breathes, “Now.” 

And somehow, it sounds just as right. 

Jim’s fingers are gone in a flash, rubbing spare lube on his cock, and he’s bending over Spock, pressing himself against Spock’s ass. He rubs his tip into Spock’s open hole, his chest hovering over Spock’s back, the arm that’s not lining himself up lying next to Spock’s, elbow buried in the mattress. He kisses Spock’s cheek and mutters, “You’re perfect.”

Then he’s pushing inside, slowly and wonderfully. Spock’s tight hole twitches around him, walls parting and sucking him in. Jim presses his face into Spock’s, creeping further and further, bit-by-bit, until he’s all the way in, right to the balls. He nearly collapses with the pleasure, taking a minute to just adjust to the feeling. He’s letting Spock adjust too. He can feel Spock’s full ass bulging against his crotch, and Jim doesn’t think he’s ever felt anything more fuckable. Now that both hands are free, he uses them to feel Spock’s sides and deftly wrap around his chest, holding him in tight. 

Jim kisses Spock’s face over and over and slides out, slamming in a moment later. He wants to swallow Spock’s breathy gasp. A few more thrusts and he finds it—the spot that makes Spock arch into him and whine beautifully. Jim starts to pummel that spot over and over again, his hands all over Spock’s body. He plays with one of Spock’s nipples and grips Spock’s shaft, pumping and tugging gently and nuzzling into Spock’s shoulders. Spock mewls like an animal, fingers tight in the sheets. 

Jim would spend all day doing this if he could. He really would. But he’s got a bridge to run, and he lets himself go wild, lets himself give in to the pleasure. Fast and rough. He bounces up and down on Spock, slamming in and out hard, jerking Spock off along with his thrusts. Spock’s hips thrust into the movement, back onto Jim’s cock and forward into Jim’s hand on repeat. Spock makes the most sensual sounds. A bead of sweat forms on the back of his neck, and Jim licks it off before it can run down his spine. Jim licks over the whole area. He kisses the back of Spock’s head and his ear and his cheek.

Spock tries to twist around, and the angle’s awkward, but Jim manages to bring their lips together. It’s that clear interest more than anything that pushes Jim over the edge, and a moment later, he’s crying out and relentless, hips racing to completion, cock bursting inside Spock’s impossibly tight channel. He’s still coming when Spock finishes a second later, shuddering and biting his fist not to moan. His ass spasming around Jim milks out the last of it. Jim’s spent and boneless too soon, falling heavily onto Spock and not wanting to roll off.

He knows Vulcans are strong. But he rolls over anyway, cock slipping out regretfully soon and hand leaving the sticky mess on the bed and Spock’s stomach. Jim brings that hand up to his mouth while he basks in the warm afterglow, acutely aware of Spock panting beside him, staring at him. 

Jim’s absently licking Spock’s (surprisingly sweet) cum off his fingers when Spock murmurs, “I apologize for my mess.”

Without even looking, Jim says, “Don’t ever apologize for amazing sex.” He’s still a little breathless. He wipes the rest of his hand off on the blanket—it’ll need washing anyway. 

Head turning to the side, Jim grabs Spock’s chin and pulls him in for a quick kiss, letting Spock taste himself. Spock doesn’t complain. He kisses back, equal parts give and take. 

When they part for more breath, both still heavy from their orgasms, Jim pushes up onto his elbows. Then he climbs off the mattress, even though he doesn’t want to. He gives Spock’s ass a final kiss before pulling the pants back up, and then he rolls Spock over so he can wipe Spock’s spent cock off on the blankets and tuck it back in. Spock sits up on his own while Jim tugs his own boxers back up. 

Jim’s wandering over to the drawers to get his own uniform when he asks, “What other masters did you have?” Because it shouldn’t matter, but it does. Jim gets his pants out of the drawer, then tosses them onto the bed and walks over to the nightstand, remembering the collar. 

“Three Vulcans and one human,” Spock says. Jim’s glad he’s turned around for that, as it gives him a bit of a shock. Four contracts seem a lot to go through for Spock’s age. Taking the collar, Jim slides back onto the bed, and Spock tilts his chin up to give Jim more access. The collar looks pretty around his throat, black contrasting attractively against his pale skin. But his neck looks good without it, too. 

“What were the Vulcans like?” Jim can’t imagine they bought him for sex—more likely secretarial work and household duties. Jim gets his pants and climbs back into them. 

When he glances at Spock, Spock’s lips are tight. He takes a moment to say, “They were not... impressed with my human ancestry.” Jim snorts. Stupid reason. Then Spock adds, “I would not have cancelled my contracts—they chose to—though they were not as kind as you.”

Jim’s... not sure how he feels about that. Good. He wants Spock to think of him as kind. But he doesn’t want to think that Spock had less-than-kind masters, and he knows what that probably means. Spock doesn’t look too bruised, but then, he would’ve been healed once repossessed, at least superficially. Vulcans know how to damage beneath the skin, though. Jim makes a mental note to send Spock to Bones later. 

He pulls a black undershirt out of the drawer and asks, “And the human?”

“He was not impressed with my Vulcan ancestry. I would also not have cancelled it, though he seemed planet-bound despite his plans, and he was far less than kind. ...And he employed your methods less... artfully.”

“A fancy way of saying he hurt and fucked you?” Jim asks, pulling on his gold tunic, back turned to hide his deep frown. It’s odd to refer to sex as a method, a method of what, Jim’s not sure, but Spock’s odd. When Spock doesn’t answer for a minute, Jim turns, straightening out his uniform.

Spock’s expression is completely blank, and he recites as though reading off a card, “I apologize for my used status.”

“Don’t be stupid.” Jim tries to soften his grim expression when Spock looks at him, and he walks back to the bed, reaching down to stroke Spock’s cheek. “I said you’re perfect, and I meant it.” Then he pecks Spock’s forehead and leans forward, looking eye to eye. “I’m going to treat you right.”

Taking Spock’s hand, he pulls Spock off the bed, guiding him into the other room. The rest of his quarters are the general living space, a couch and a chair and a coffee table, a kitchenette and a small desk with a console on it. He points to that console and says, “I’ve already unlocked everything not top security. When you’re alone, you can study on it if you want. Ship’s functions. Chess moves. Scientific pursuits. Whatever you want.” 

When Jim looks over, Spock’s staring at the console. For a minute, he seems to be speechless. It isn’t that grand a gesture. It’s just something, one of the small things Jim can do. But Spock looks at him and says, “Thank you,” in that tight, Vulcan way, with an undercurrent of _feeling_ that makes Jim smile.

* * *

As soon as Jim’s in sickbay, he knows Bones has awkward news. He’s frowning in that gruff way of his that isn’t just all the usual problems—it’s his doctor-having-to-give-a-bad-prognosis look. The exam took place in Bones’ private office, as per Jim’s request—he doesn’t need a swarm of nurses clamouring to examine his exotic pet. 

Once Jim’s inside, Bones shuts the doors behind him, locking them casually like he always does—he hates interruptions. Spock’s sitting on the examination table, legs together and hands in his lap, pants still on, posture straight. Jim trusts Bones implicitly, but he still checks Spock’s face to make sure he’s comfortable. He’s unreadable, like usual. Jim softly strokes his thigh and turns to Bones. 

Usually, they wouldn’t do this in front of a patient. But Spock’s technically considered property right now, and Bones holds up the PADD to get started. He flits through some scans and says, “He’s in bad shape, Jim.”

Spock’s thigh tenses under Jim’s fingers. Jim subtly glances up at him, but there’s no change to his expression. “Is or was?” Jim asks.

“Was,” Bones corrects. “I patched up most of it, but there was a lot of internal bruising and some considerable systems damage. He’s also malnourished.” Jim frowns. Spock had a rougher history then he let on, but Jim understands why he wouldn’t complain of pain. Being perceived as damaged goods would be easy grounds for firing. On the one hand, Jim’s flattered that Spock would be concerned about having to leave Jim. On the other hand, he’s upset that Spock was hurt and didn’t get ‘patched up’ right away. “I did what I could, but I suggest regular weekly checkups to ensure that the injections have no adverse effects.”

“Understood,” Jim agrees immediately. Then he turns to Spock to order, “You’re to return to sickbay, same time, same place, each week until Dr. McCoy says otherwise; got it?”

Nodding curtly, Spock says, “Yes, Captain.”

“Cover your ears,” Bones says suddenly. Jim looks over at him in confusion, but Bones just passes two cotton balls out of a jar over to Spock, repeating brusquely, “Cover them.”

A flicker of annoyance spreads over Spock’s face—Bones isn’t his master. But when Jim doesn’t protest, he complies, holding the cotton balls up against his ears. It looks vaguely adorable, and Jim looks away with a snort. 

“What was that about? We can’t just step outside?”

“Why bother?” Bones shrugs. “Listen, you know I don’t like to say this sort of shit in front of patients, but... he might not be worth it.”

Jim just lifts an eyebrow, not sure if that’s a medical comment or not. 

Bones clears it up by continuing, “I can fix him physically, but he’s got an attitude problem.”

“An attitude problem?” Jim repeats incredulously, crossing his arms.

“You heard me.” Bones scowls. “When I gave him a retina scan he informed me I was wasting my time and that his vision was perfect, and then when I used the dermal regenerator, he suggested an anabolic protoplaser would be more effective.” Jim, attempting to smother his smirk, seems to be just making Bones madder. “I’m serious! He even tried to tell me my detronal scanner was malfunctioning. He might be a looker, but he doesn’t know his place. And then I started picking up strange readings that he completely dismissed, which I’m going to check the progress of next week, by the way, and then when I told him not to argue with his doctor, he suggested I was inferring things that never happened! I’m the chief medical officer, not some bumbling med student—I won’t stand to be treated like that!” Bones finally ends his tirade with an annoyed huff, and Jim struggles to contain his laughter. 

He turns back to Spock and tugs the cotton from Spock’s ears. Spock’s looking at him very levelly, although, with how intelligent he is, Jim’s sure Spock has some idea of what just happened. Jim holds Spock’s chin firmly, looking eye-to-eye, and he says in a stern tone of voice, “Next time, behave for Dr. McCoy.”

Spock lifts an eyebrow. Jim has the distinct impression that he thinks he did behave. But he says only, “I apologize if my actions were less than satisfactory.”

Jim has the urge to kiss him. But that wouldn’t help things, so Jim asks Bones, “Do you want me to spank him?”

Bones’ cheeks turn red instantly, just like Jim knew they would. Bones jabs a finger at the door and barks, “Get out of my office!”

That sounds like a good idea. Jim turns to scoop Spock up with one arm beneath his knees and one at his back, and Spock’s arms wrap deftly around Jim’s neck. Jim picks him off the table—he’s heavy, but nothing Jim can’t handle. Jim turns with a knowing smile, and Bones, grumbling, opens the doors. 

Jim carries Spock out into sickbay, headed straight for his quarters.

* * *

Jim’s going to have to stop this at some point, he knows. It makes the process much slower, and he feels like Spock’s earned more than this.

But at the same time, seeing Spock kneeling on the floor beside his feet is _so_ hot, and the way Spock licks food from his fingers makes Jim’s pants tighten. He’s been purposely Synthesizing small foods, just because he wants to feel more of that little pink tongue, wrapping around his middle and index finger, collecting all the extra beads of sugar. 

Normally, Jim goes for salty, hearty things, lunch sort of meals and large dinners. But Spock seems to prefer lighter things, often bland, and fruits. While they’re sharing meals, Jim obliges those tastes. He takes a bite of another strawberry and lowers the rest down for Spock, watching the way Spock licks around the perimeter before sucking it into his mouth. Jim’s not even sure he’s trying to be sensual, but he is. When Jim bites the food first, it feels like they’re indirectly kissing. But the next one Jim feeds Spock without biting, because he’s not a total monster. 

He’s just weak, and Spock’s _beautiful_. When the strawberry’s gone, he sucks at Jim’s fingers as if to clean them, then kisses them, as if to say thank you. Jim runs his saliva-slicked hand back through Spock’s hair, knowing he’ll wash it later. He moves on to his salad—another food Spock seems to enjoy. But that’s not exactly a finger food, and it’s not as fun having Spock lick a fork. He tugs at Spock’s collar lightly, (the only article of clothing Spock’s currently wearing) and Spock knowingly climbs up into his lap. Jim arranges Spock sideways, curled against his chest, legs over his thighs, head a little above his, lifted up. 

Jim starts to eat his salad, giving every second bite to Spock. Salad might not help fatten him up, but it is nutritious, and Spock seems to like it. Halfway through the bowl, Jim purposely spreads a bit of olive dressing on Spock’s lips on the way into his mouth. Spock chews on the lettuce and then licks it off, and Jim leans in to help, their tongues meeting in the middle. Jim’s about to go back to feeding him when a set of long fingers wrap around his, gently tugging the fork free. 

Spock spears a few leaves and brings them up to Jim’s lips, and Jim, grinning in amusement, opens up. Spock feeds him, and then drops the fork again. Jim has the sudden urge to throw him over the table and fuck him senseless. 

Instead, Jim picks Spock up, abruptly standing. Spock’s fingers fly to hold onto Jim’s shirt, and Jim walks around the coffee table, depositing Spock on the coach across from him. Then he shifts the plate to the center of the table and asks, “Do you want chopsticks or a fork?” The rest of the meal is a rice dish. Vulcans are, apparently, vegetarian, and Jim’s shifted accordingly. Spock tilts his head. 

“Chopsticks. Have I done something wrong?”

Smirking, Jim pulls a pair of reusable chopsticks out of his drawer and comes back over, handing them out. “No, I’m just a busy man and you’re an intelligent person, and I want to set the precedent that this is alright and you’re allowed to eat independently, though sometimes I might still like to feed you by hand.”

There’s something about Spock that almost looks... embarrassed. Like he doesn’t think he should be sitting on furniture again. Mainly just to distract him, Jim asks, “Have you ever been to Risa?”

“Risa?” Spock lifts an eyebrow. He seems to be waiting for Jim to eat first, so Jim does, and then Spock follows suit. He waits to swallow before answering, “I have not.”

“They call it the pleasure planet,” Jim says, grinning. “Naturally, the Empire owns it. Don’t get me wrong, I love exploring the unknown, but sometimes I just want to explore the stuff in my own backyard I’ve never seen before, y’know?”

Spock nods, not as stiffly as he would expect. “That is a reasonable instinct.”

“Where would you like to visit if you could?”

Spock takes a moment to consider, chewing while he runs over planetary systems in his mind. Jim can see the wheels turning, and he likes that. Discovering and doing things no one’s ever done before is one of Jim’s favourite things, definitely one of the reasons he strove so hard for captain. He can see on Spock’s face that Spock also considers this of interest—he did, after all, aim for the stars. Finally, Spock decides, “I believe Romulus would be fascinating.”

“Romulus?” Jim laughs. “Those assholes?”

“Regardless of their social peculiarities, Romulans share a similar background with Vulcans, and I imagine their home world would therefore also share similarities. Where the deviations arise would be a most interesting concept to study.”

Jim nods, sort of getting it. “...Like studying your own people if things had been different. I can understand that.”

There’s only a small ball of rice left, and Jim pushes the plate forward, indicating that Spock should take it.


	4. *

There’s something about the way that Spock gives lap dances that makes Jim horny as fuck. He’s had a lot of people ride his lap before, fully dressed or down to nothing, sitting over his pants or directly slipping onto his cock, all manner of species. But no one’s ever done it quite like Spock, and Jim doubts he’s going to be sampling other kinds any time soon. 

They aren’t technically having sex right now; Jim’s on duty and fully dressed, absently running through orders from Starfleet on the console on his armrest. Spock’s wearing his pants and grinding into his lap, eyes half-lidded and expressionless, only for Jim. Spock hasn’t so much as glanced sideways since he started, and Jim’s not sure if that’s because he’s embarrassed or because he wants Jim to melt from the intensity. If it’s the latter, it’s working. 

There’s a communications beep in the far corner, but Jim lets Uhura handle it, not bothering to ask. He doesn’t want to be disturbed unless absolutely necessary, and he inevitably closes his console to focus on the gyrating hips in front of him. Spock spent a bit of time running his hands through his own hair, but now they’re resting on Jim’s shoulder, occasionally tapping the back of Jim’s neck. Spock’s upper body moves according to the lower half, otherwise still. Spock’s hips are rotating and sensually tilting back and forth, grinding into Jim’s growing crotch with a steady, calculated rhythm and just enough pressure. Spock’s pants are half-tented, and Jim has the distinct impression that, were they in the privacy of their quarters, those pants would be bulging just as much as Jim’s. 

“Captain?”

Jim bites off the grumble under his breath, pivoting his chair slightly to look over at Uhura. “Can it wait?” 

“Orders from the Empire, Sir,” She informs him, in that casual ‘no-it-cannot’ way of hers.

Rolling his eyes, Jim barks, “Patch it through.” It streams into the side of his console, all encoded text, and Jim tells Spock sideways, “You keep going.”

Spock lifts an eyebrow, as though offended Jim thinks he would presume to stop. 

The orders are a bit of a mess. They’re already carrying a rare Denobulan pathogen to a Rigelian colony, and apparently the Empire now thinks—in the middle of an existing mission—that it’s a perfect time to drop one of the carriers (a tribble, go figure) onto an abandoned province on Qo’noS. Apparently recent intelligence gives them the ability to beam small enough material through the Klingon planetary defense systems, specifically to that province that, as of the next thirteen hours, will apparently remain empty and vulnerable before the regular patrol comes around. The Enterprise has time to warp there, but... “How the hell’re we supposed to get there long enough to beam anything down without walking right into a whole battalion?” Jim double checks the orders, miffed as usual at the insanity they bestow upon him. 

He’s the most reckless and yet accomplished captain they have, but still. Just because he often manages to pull off the impossible doesn’t mean it should be counted on. 

Nevertheless, he opens a channel and informs the necessary crew, “Bones, get one of those infected tribbles separated and packaged up—I want it ready for Scotty to beam in two hours.”

 _“We’ll be there that soon?”_ Bones asks, before abruptly grumbling, _“Never mind; I don’t want to know.”_ He ends the communication first. 

And Jim sits there, stumped and too turned on to deal with puzzles. ...Except he’s completely unwilling to make Spock stop, especially when Spock’s thighs are squeezing at his like that. Spock wraps his arms tighter around Jim’s neck, shortening the space between them and leaning in to peck Jim’s forehead. Unprompted kisses don’t seem like Spock’s style, but Jim’s received a fair few of them. He tilts his head to the side to give Spock more space to kiss, and Spock nuzzles into him, hips still grinding to a silent, mathematical beat. Jim wraps an arm around his waist, fondly stroking his back. 

Spock bends to purr in Jim’s ear, “Perhaps if you hid the ship behind one of Qo’noS’ moons, Captain?”

Jim’s hand stops abruptly, face turning up to his pet, who apparently has just solved his problem. Still giving Jim an exceptional lap dance and looking utterly pragmatic, Spock elaborates with Jim’s full attention, “One of the smaller moons far enough away from Praxis, Qo’noS’ largest moon, would conceivably mask the Enterprise both electro-magnetically and gravitationally from both Praxis and Qo’noS sensors. If the intention is merely to beam down one item, it is reasonable to assume that the Enterprise could get in and out before a Klingon patrol would discover it.”

Jim blinks. Somehow, Spock just got exponentially hotter. “Clever thing, aren’t you?” Jim says, momentarily too stunned for intonation. 

Spock’s lips twitch slightly in a frown, and he says more quietly, “I apologize if I have overstepped my boundaries, Captain.” He hesitates before adding, “I have been... studying... as I believed was allowed.”

“You were allowed.” As the shock passes, a grin splits Jim’s face. “I’m impressed.” And he says it lightly, but he means it heavily. Twisting his seat, Jim calls, “Uhura, hail the nearest Starfleet intelligence base and get me everything you can on Qo’noS moons. Chekov, I want a course to whichever one is barren and farthest from Praxis. Mattheson, we better have full shields and weapons ready, just in case. Sulu, you’re taking us there when we get that info. I want us there in less than ten hours, people. Look alive.”

Toning it back down as his crew begins to move, Jim adds in a purr so low it’s almost a growl, “And _you_ deserve a reward.” He’s looking straight at Spock, whose eyes flare at Jim’s fingertips slipping into the front of his pants. Jim doesn’t undo them—he allows Spock that privacy. But he dips his hand inside and cups Spock’s hardening cock, already pulsing at the promise. 

Spock opens his mouth, then moves his tongue as though his throat’s gone dry, then breathes, “Thank you for considering my suggestion, Captain.”

“I didn’t consider it, I took it,” Jim growls. He tugs Spock down by the hair for a fierce kiss, and he can feel Spock press into him, feel Spock’s hips work into a slower grind, more rutting into Jim’s hand. Jim wraps his tongue around Spock’s while his fingers curl around Spock’s shaft, thumb brushing the tip. There’s a single bead of precum that he swirls around, and he immediately starts to stroke up and down. Spock tenses deliciously against him, mouth opening wider to gasp. Spock curls in around Jim completely, blocking out the rest of the bridge, like it’s just the two of them. 

That’s how it always feels. Spock lets go in Jim’s arms, control slipping away as he buries his face in the side of Jim’s, arms tight around Jim’s neck as Jim’s hand moves faster and faster. Spock’s rock solid in his grip, trembling and aching. Jim can feel the need in him. The want, the desire. Jim kisses his cheek and licks at his ear, wanting to feel the orgasm rip through his body. 

Spock takes a decently long time to come, probably due to that control and the knowledge that they’re being watched, that this isn’t just for them. That doesn’t bother Jim—he likes that everyone sees the collar around Spock’s neck and the shiver of pleasure down Spock’s spine and knows exactly who he belongs to. Some of Jim’s other, more affluent and well-connected officers have servants, but none of them have anything like Spock. There isn’t anyone else like Spock, Jim’s sure of it. Jim tilts Spock’s chin back in place to kiss him firmly, fill his mouth with tongue. Impertinent and perfect, Spock’s tongue fights Jim’s back, the two tangling and battling in the middle. Jim starts to squeeze as he strokes, until Spock’s shuddering against him. 

Then Spock clamps onto Jim’s mouth hard, lips fully sealed, and Jim immediately knows why. The warm cock in his hand twitches and spills a healthy does of thick, creamy cum all over his fingers, staining the front of Spock’s pants. Jim eagerly swallows up Spock’s moan, and he lets Spock keep kissing him while the resulting shivers wrack Spock’s body. 

When Spock finally pulls back, he’s panting, and Jim pulls out his hand to wipe off on the inside of his own gold shirt. As pretty as Spock would be covered in cum, Jim doesn’t want to make him walk around like that in public. Spock stares at the hand, eyebrows knit together, always confused. But he gives up quickly this time, leaning in to kiss Jim again and settle in against Jim’s body. 

Jim takes a moment to soak in the warm feel of his pet. A few seconds later, Spock starts to rock his hips again, and Jim chuckles, kissing his cheek and mumbling, “Stop that; you did your job.”

Nodding, Spock stops. Jim rearranges him a bit, legs over Jim’s lap, curled up, body against Jim’s side. Jim’s still hard, but he’s got business to attend to, and with Spock around so much, he’s growing used to being hard. 

He calls, “Uhura. Progress?” And things roll back to work.

* * *

Jim’s gotten in the habit of licking Spock’s throat when the collar comes off in their quarters. There’s not much sense to it, but Jim figures it’s one part of Spock that none of the others see, and he likes to lavish it because of that. Spock seems to like the attentions, even if he struggles not to show it. 

Jim kisses his adam’s apple and pushes him gently towards the bed—it was their last piece of clothing to come off. They ate, and they showered, and now it’s time to undo that last one—time to get messy again and just be together again. Jim did a little bit of work and let Spock study, and he missed Spock’s presence every second that happened. He’s grown needy and dependant, and he doesn’t care.

Spock falls to the bed and crawls on his elbows backwards, and Jim crawls after him, delighting every time their bare skin brushes. He helps arrange Spock: lays his head down on the blanket near the pills, curls his body around. Then Jim lies down beside him, head to foot, so his face is in Spock’s crotch and Spock’s face is in his. He kisses the tip of Spock’s dick and asks more firmly than he feels, “Suck me?”

“This is... an odd position, Jim,” Spock informs him. It makes Jim shiver every time Spock says his name, and he rewards Spock with a kiss to his balls. Spock shifts at the touch, clearly wanting to squirm. Then he asks, voice as low as usual, except a little huskier, “Am I to presume that you will... ‘suck me’... as well?” He sounds like he doesn’t believe it, and like just asking might be crossing a line. 

But Jim nuzzles into Spock’s crotch, breathes in the heavy musk, and murmurs against Spock’s underside, “Mr. Spock, I am going to make you see stars.”

When he glances up, it’s clear that Spock wants to say more. But he doesn’t. He licks his lips and opens up for Jim’s shaft, the sight alone making Jim moan. He watches and feels the head of his cock disappear into Spock’s warm mouth, and he turns to the thick, hard cock in front of him. It’s long and slightly yellowish, webbed in the occasional green vein and throbbing slightly—a feature of Vulcan cocks, he thinks. It’s cute. He licks the tip, and then he spreads his own mouth around it. 

As soon as he’s on, Spock groans into him. The vibrations ricochet up Jim’s cock, and it creates a cyclic effect where he’s moaning back, drinking his own satisfaction. He gently impales himself further and further, and Spock does the same for him. It’s somewhat difficult to concentrate, but Jim knows he’s good at this. Just because he likes to top doesn’t mean he doesn’t know how to please his partners. He does his best to make Spock feel as good as Spock always makes him feel, and he relaxes his jaw, careful with his teeth. His tongue strokes the underside, going and going until his nose is buried in Spock’s balls. 

Then he relaxes his throat, and he takes Spock even further down, focusing on not choking. Spock moans loudly around him, and it feels _so_ good. Jim has to stop just to bask in the pleasure, his eyes rolling back in his head. Spock is also trying to go as far as possible. Spock’s mouth is blissfully hot. It’s slick and wet and tight. There’s the tiniest scrape of teeth, but Jim takes the pain with the pleasure. He forces himself to keep his hips still, refusing to buck into Spock’s face like he wants to. He burrows down, swallow Spock to the hilt. 

Spock doesn’t have the same restraint, apparently; he weakly bucks his hips into Jim’s mouth, and Jim grabs him just in time. Struggling not to gag, Jim holds Spock’s thighs still and pets them. The cock in his mouth is pulsing, alive and warm. Jim hollows his cheeks right out, milking Spock’s loudest moan yet. 

Spock’s rock hard in his mouth, and that does make it somewhat easier to slip off and slide back on without his hands. Spock’s trembling beneath him, but Jim lets one hand go anyway, tracing down Spock’s side and just using the other to hold Spock still. He reaches around to Spock’s ass, not searching for the hole to breach but just squeezing, touching and feeling. He can feel Spock’s hand tentatively doing the same, and he groans encouragingly when Spock grabs one of his cheeks. Spock starts to knead his taut flesh. Spock isn’t deep-throating him yet, but Spock’s trying. 

Jim’s got Spock all the way down his throat and bobs up and down eagerly, sucking as much as he can. Every time Spock makes any kind of noise—keening or crooning or whimpering or pleading—it makes Jim’s temperature spike, his heart beat faster. The feeling around his cock makes it so worth it, but the evidence of Spock’s pleasure is even better. He tries to arch closer, his nipples brushing Spock’s stomach, but it’s difficult to contort his body without bucking into Spock’s face. Spock is sucking on him back, starting to piston and off.

It’s _amazing_. Jim hums in rapture around the cock in his mouth, wanting to show how good it feels and not even really controlling it, just leaking pleasure. He’s foggy from the raw scent, sure he’s going to crack soon. He wants to taste Spock first, but he’s not sure he’ll last. He does his best to make it so insanely good that Spock won’t be able to resist, but Spock’s doing a pretty damn good job too. Jim almost feels like he’s in a cocksucking contest, though as both a contestant and an instrument, every outcome is a prize for him. He’ll be basking in the glow no matter what. He screws up his face and pounds himself down onto Spock over and over again, as hard and fast as he can manage. He employs every skill he has. He wants to make Spock _writhe_ , and his own orgasm’s building. 

His stomach’s constricting. He thinks his balls are about to tighten. His heart is racing, pulse wild, cock ready to explode. But then Spock comes, first and hard, pouring a sudden, torrential flood right down Jim’s throat. Jim immediately struggles to take it, almost choking but catching himself. Spock’s screaming around him, roaring and arching in a beautiful show of passion, hips twitching wildly beneath Jim’s fingers. Jim sits back and takes it, swallowing rapidly so as not to spill. 

Spock’s not even done when Jim’s had enough. He thrusts forward suddenly and comes all over Spock’s mouth, and Spock’s pulling off, but not all the way. Jim can still feel those lips clamped tight around his shaft, and he can feel his tip spasming against Spock’s tongue. He comes and he drinks, and he doesn’t pull off until he’s sure he’s taken everything Spock has to give. 

Then he rolls to the side, letting Spock go and pulling himself out of Spock. He lies there, panting, tasting Spock all over his mouth and _loving it_.

When he glances down, Spock’s got a trickle of cum trailing out the corner of his lips. Jim pushes up onto his elbows, crawling around so they can lie head to head. 

Struggling for air, he announces, “That was the best blow job you’ve ever given.”

Spock breathes, “Thank you.”

Grinning, Jim kisses him, tasting himself and sharing Spock right back. 

After, he’s back to lying still again, evening out. He thinks that one might’ve short-circuited his brain a little. The room’s quiet—it’s not quite early enough to sleep. 

Finally, Spock comments in a low voice, “A master has never attempted to please me.” Jim struggles not to smirk, not to feel good about that. It’s a double-edged sword. He likes being the good one, but he wishes Spock had been treated better. He ends up snorting, because it’s ridiculous that other masters would be so selfish. 

Jim says, “I hope I did more than attempt.”

Without looking, Spock nods. Jim checks. Another moment passes, and Spock looks sideways, eyelids half-lidded and pupils still a little dilated. Jim looks back. “...I also wish to please you.”

Jim... didn’t expect that, the sincerity in it. He’s glad it’s not just an obligation. He lifts a tired hand to stroke the side of Spock’s face, trace Spock’s jaw and thumb his cheek. Soft and smooth. He breathes, “You do please me.” More than he can put into words.

Spock doesn’t say anything, but Jim thinks he must be happy. He looks content enough, though contemplative.

His eyes slide past Jim and to the chessboard, lingering there. 

Eventually, feeling head-light and body-heavy and overall _good_ , Jim asks, “Do you want to play?”

And Spock nods again, so they do.

* * *

Their new mission with the Orions—honestly, when are they going to get back to _exploring_?—finds Jim in Engineering. He runs over Scotty’s specs, signs off on what he has to, and heads back to the turbolift. 

On the level for sickbay, the doors open. Spock steps in beside him, wearing the black Starfleet shirt Jim’s now allowing him to wear. He’s earned it. Just as the turbolift doors close, Jim’s personal communicator goes off. He whips it out to hear Bones ask, _“Have a minute?”_

Jim says, “One sec,” and closes his communicator. He glances sideways at Spock, who’s standing bolt upright with his arms behind his back, all the usual stiff posture. Jim asks him, “How’d your checkup go?”

Spock doesn’t answer. That draws a frown out of Jim, and he flips his communicator back open. “Apparently I have that minute, Bones.”

“Good. Use it to see me in sickbay.” Then it’s Bones’ turn to hang up. Jim puts his communicator back in his back pocket. He gives the computer the adjustment, and the turbolift stops abruptly, heading back down. Spock is silent for the duration of the ride. 

When they get there, they head across the walkway, Spock lingering obediently behind Jim. 

They’re almost at sickbay when Spock suddenly pulls Jim into an empty side corridor, and Jim nearly yelps in surprise. Spock presses him into the white wall, leaning close and nuzzling into the side of his face. Any time Spock nuzzles him first, Jim knows something’s up. Spock’s not exactly the preemptively affectionate type. 

But Spock doesn’t say anything, and Jim wraps his arms around Spock’s shoulder, murmuring quietly, “What’s wrong?”

Spock’s got his head over Jim’s shoulder, so Jim can’t see his expression. He whispers flatly, “I do not want to leave you.”

“What?” Jim tries to push Spock back, but Spock’s solid and immoveable. “What’s going on?”

A few more light pushes, and Spock finally steps back, head lowered but face otherwise deceptively calm. He repeats only, “I do not want to leave.”

“You won’t,” Jim says, firm and sure, no matter the circumstances. “Hey, look at me.” He lifts Spock’s chin on his own, staring into Spock’s dark eyes and making it very clear. “No one’s going to take you away from me, understand?”

“You might.”

Jim sighs.

Even though he doesn’t understand what’s wrong, he never feels comfortable demanding thoughts out of Spock’s head. That’s more sacred than actions. And it’s clear that Spock doesn’t want to talk about it. So Jim finally has to pull his communicator back out and inform Bones, “I’ll come by another day, okay?” Because he has more important things to deal with, apparently.

 _“What?”_ Bones sounds immediately indignant, but Jim just closes the communicator. Spock needs him more right now.

He’s hungry, anyway. 

He drapes his arm over Spock’s shoulders and turns them, deciding, “C’mon. Let’s go have dinner.”

Spock holds his hand on the way up to their quarters: an oddity Jim doesn’t miss.


	5. *

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter is very obvious, but... this story isn’t meant to be long and contemplative, it’s a short and sweet porno possibly to setup drabbles afterwards in this universe~

At Bones’ request, or rather, nagging, Jim heads straight to sickbay after his shift. Spock’s in his quarters, probably on the console. As soon as Jim sets foot amongst the nurses, his friend’s there to sweep him aside into the back office.

The door closes like usual, and Bones gestures to the table. “Have a seat.”

“You’re not examining me,” Jim says immediately, because Bones is always trying to do that. But Bones just rolls his eyes. 

“Do you see a chair in here?” And then, under his breath, he adds, “Not that you’re not completely overdue for a checkup...”

Before that train can go too fair, Jim asks firmly, “What’d you call me here for?”

Bones picks a PADD off the counter and begins to chip away at it, probably just to look more professional. But he frowns, and that doesn’t bode well for Jim’s mood. “It’s about your new favourite plaything.”

Jim knew that. But he’s been trying to ignore it. He stays quiet while Bones carries on. “There’s something seriously wrong with his hormones, and his condition’s deteriorating. If something’s not done about it, the stress on his body will shut everything down. He should be returned to the Empire immediately to be refurbished before he’s resold.”

“Re—” Jim breaks himself off before he can even finish the thought. Resold. _Refurbished._ Spock’s not a fucking couch. “You’re telling me he’s going to die?”

“If we don’t stop this thing, yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Fix him.” Jim almost surprises himself with the tenacity in his own voice. He’s leaning off the table. “You’re a doctor, aren’t you? Fix it!”

“It’s not that simple.” Bones scowls. “It’s some Vulcan thing, and there’s no information on it in the databanks—you know how the Vulcans are with their secrets, which they oh-so-helpfully pretend they don’t even have. Spock won’t tell me anything about it. And when I tried to pull rank on him, he got snippy with me. He’s clearly unruly and should be sent back anyway.”

There’s a sudden spike of rage in Jim’s chest, and he says in all seriousness, “If I find out you’re lying just to make me fire him—”

“I’m a doctor!” Bones snaps back. “I’m not here to play head games with you. I know what I’m doing, and I don’t make shit up to buttress my arguments. I know you’ve become ridiculously attached to your pet, but the fact of the matter is there’s something _wrong_ with him, and if we don’t figure out what it is or give him to someone who can figure it out, I won’t be the one taking him from you.” And he stares at Jim hard in that firm way of his that he used to do back in the Academy when Jim needed a wakeup call for partying too much. It’s almost comforting, but Jim’s mostly just at a loss.

He feels suddenly helpless and awful. He’s glad he’s sitting down. 

He drops his head into his hands and rubs at it. After a few minutes, he mumbles, “I’m not getting rid of him.”

“I figured you’d say that. If you want him that badly, there’s a chance you could still buy him back after the Empire... does whatever it does to malfunctioning Vulcans.”

“You don’t know?”

Bones’ lips are tight, and Jim hears the inevitable words in his head: Bones is a doctor, not a slaver. Perhaps because of Jim’s obvious pain, he says instead, in an uncharacteristically soft tone, “Look. Vulcans are like this. They hide anything unsavoury, even medically. From the symptoms, I’d say this isn’t a freak accident. It’s something common to their different neurochemistry and biology, and someone’s got to know how to fix it. Spock seemed to know what was going on, even though he wouldn’t tell me anything.”

“They’ll hurt him,” Jim says a little dully, near certain. “They’re not...” He stops, sighing. “Servants don’t get doctors like you, Bones.”

Bones nods. “I know. But that’s the way our world is. And right now, you might need those people to save his life, even if the details aren’t... pleasant.” After a minute of tense silence, he adds, “You know, just because I don’t like him doesn’t mean I want to see a patient die.”

Jim nods. “I’ll... I’ll talk to him.”

“Good. Or rather, good luck. You’ll need it.”

* * *

When Jim returns, Spock immediately slips off the desk with the console, coming to kneel in front of Jim. Jim’s doors automatically lock behind him. Spock hasn’t taken off his collar—it’s not his place—but he’s otherwise naked, hands in his lap. He looks up at Jim somehow both blankly and expectantly. 

Jim walks up close enough to cup Spock’s chin, stroking it lightly and tilting it up. He knows he’s frowning and doesn’t even know where to start. 

Spock speaks first. “I apologize for my terse behaviour towards Dr. McCoy.”

“Why did you do that?” Jim asks, even though he doesn’t really care. He knows what Bones’ bedside manner is like, but... maybe he’s just trying to delay the subject. “Did he hurt you at all?”

“No.”

Sighing, Jim’s fingers slip down Spock’s throat, past his shoulder and along his arm. Jim takes his hand and tugs him, taking him over to the white couch along the wall. They sit down, side by side, and Jim pulls out what he doesn’t want to. “I know I treat you as well as I can, but... this I have to ask as your master. I need you to tell me what’s wrong. That’s an order.”

Spock nods slowly. He understands. His eyes fall down; clearly, he still doesn’t want to. Jim allows him the time he needs, stroking the back of his hand.

Eventually, Spock says, “I have been... somewhat unable to control my emotions of late. I believe I was less than cooperative with Dr. McCoy due to... due to my condition.”

“Which is?”

Spock’s lips are tight. “It is not something Vulcans like to divulge.”

“I’m sorry, Spock. But this isn’t about what you’d like to do. You have to tell me.”

Spock knows. It’s all over his face. Like Jim, he’s trying to delay the inevitable. His face scrunches up a little as he looks away, saying, “It is... it is called pon farr.” His throat constricts as he says it, voice trembling. His emotions are growing harder to control, indeed. Jim knows that must be painful for Spock, and it makes it painful to watch. “It affects Vulcans once roughly every seven years and causes them to act... almost mindlessly.” His voice winds down into a whisper. 

“It’s okay,” Jim insists. “That you were rude to Bones, I mean. He deserves it, anyway.” This is so difficult. Being mindless would probably be the worst thing imaginable for Spock; he obviously takes so much pride in being intelligent, in being rational. But there are worse things. “But he said... Fuck, Spock, he said you’d _die_ if it got worse. How do I stop that? Tell me what to do.”

“There is nothing you can do.” Spock shakes his head, still looking away. “The doctor is correct. But it is an inevitability of Vulcan biology.”

“I _won’t_ let you die.” Now Jim’s squeezing Spock’s hand. “There has to be some sort of cure if this happens over and over. If I can’t fix it, who can? If I... if I send you back...”

It’s a testament to Spock’s strength that he’s lasted this long. He’s looked in such strain, but there he breaks, and he drops his head into his hand, eyes tearing up around the edges. He’s breathing very hard, but trying so hard not to show it, trying to cover his face. Jim’s heart clenches. He grabs at Spock instantly, arms wrapping around Spock’s body, tugging him in. Spock curls into Jim, trembling all over and sniffing, struggling to regain control. 

Jim tries to shush him soothingly, petting his hair and whispering, “I’m sorry. I don’t want to give you back. You _know_ that. Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it...”

“You can’t,” Spock hisses. “It doesn’t... it wouldn’t do to...”

“What would the Empire do for you?”

“They would...” Spock pulls back from Jim’s arms. His cheeks are green and slightly wet, and he keeps trying to wipe at them. He looks _so_ ashamed. But at Jim’s stern look he admits, so quietly that Jim has to strain to hear it, “They would... mate me... to another contract-less Vulcan.” As Jim’s eyes grow wide, Spock explains in an uncharacteristically hurried rush, “Pon farr is a terrible sickness that drives a Vulcan to their animal urges, wherein they must mate to another or they will perish. It is a long, strenuous process that taxes both the body and mind of both the Vulcan and the mate, and creates a lasting bond that...” He trails off, like he’s lost the words. 

Speechless, Jim mumbles, “That’s it?” And he realizes belatedly how horrible that sounds, but he doesn’t mean to be patronizing. He can see that this is tearing at Spock’s very being, making him say and do things he finds horrifying. But that’s something Jim can fix. He clarifies, “You don’t want to be sent away and mated to someone you don’t know and will always then have a bond with but probably never see again...?”

“I am a Vulcan,” Spock hisses. He doesn’t continue the statement, but Jim knows what he means. When Jim doesn’t say anything, Spock barrels on, “And it is a tumultuous process; it is unlikely a Vulcan with a compatible cycle would be available, and anything less I would likely damage, something which I could not conscionably do. But as the pon farr worsens, I will be driven so far from myself that I will not know otherwise. I should not even be affected this way right now; I am being unreasonable and emotional. It is... it is...” he trails off again. Jim’s resolve is hardening. 

“We’ll take this to Bones. If he knows what he’s dealing with, maybe he can—”

“He will not,” Spock says immediately. Then he shakes again and says, eyes closed, “I apologize for snapping, Jim, I—”

Jim’s quarters beep with the incoming communication.

At the worst possible time. 

Jim’s still in shock, still reeling, and he’s still half draped around Spock, just wanting to hold Spock tight. But he says loud enough for the computer to pick up, “Yes?”

 _“Captain,”_ Sulu’s voice comes from overhead. _“We’re detecting a Klingon battle cruiser in the area.”_

Jim has no choice but to say, “On my way.”

He gets off the couch, and he grabs Spock’s collar, tugging him forward to hiss, “Nothing will take you away from me.” Jim kisses Spock’s forehead—all he can do. 

And then he’s out the door, head a submerged wreck.

* * *

The battle was short and simple. The Klingons were outmatched in every capacity, but they still, of course, engaged in fire. When the ship blows up, Jim can relax. He shifts back in his seat, watching the little bits of metal float through space. 

It feels like there’s a collective sigh on the bridge. Just in case and mostly for support, Jim stays with them. Uhura confirms that there were no communications sent from the Klingons, but it doesn’t hurt to stay on alert anyway. 

It also gives Jim a moment to think on things. He’s been hit with two glaring issues in one day, and the first one’s still broiling in his head. He thinks about Spock, alone and scared, and it breaks his heart. It’s so strange to think of Spock as _scared_ , even harder _crying_ , but he knows that’s what’s happening. 

He already knows what he wants to do about it.

It’s inconceivable. Insane. Against all regulation. But it’s not a difficult choice. It’s so obvious, and it’s simple. It won’t be easy once he commits, but he knows that he has to commit. There’s no other option. 

There isn’t really much to think about once he accepts that, but he spends a while mulling over it, anyway, if for nothing else than to tell Spock he did. What he’ll tell any admirals that ask. How he’ll maintain his status. He’ll have to fight for it with everything he has. How the relationship will change. He makes rash decisions sometimes, but this is one that he made with his heart, and he knows he won’t regret it. 

He clears his throat loudly, the senior officers turning to look at him. 

In his booming, bridge-announcement voice, he asks, “Would anyone care if I mated with a personal servant?”

There’s a general sort of pause in the air, coupled with a few surprise looks and, oddly, a few not at all surprised ones. 

Lieutenant Shton breaks the silence first by mumbling sadly, “I’d be disappointed.”

Stifling a snort, Jim casually informs her, “I never would’ve married you anyway.”

She sighs, “I know, but it was still fun to dream.” And she turns back to her console, back to work. Because she’s Jim’s officer and, like all of them, she knows him. 

A few others exchange looks. He’s flattered that a few look like they have similar thoughts. A redshit looks mildly miffed but doesn’t say anything. Then Sulu says, “If anyone had a problem with their captain doing stupid things, they really should’ve transferred to a different ship a long time ago.”

Jim throws his head back and laughs, because that’s too true. When no one else protests, Jim announces, “You guys are the best crew ever.” Because they are. The general consensus is that they don’t seem to care—they’ve been with him through some truly insane shit, and they trust him, and Uhura tells him she saw this coming. The crew on other levels, not on the bridge with him every day, might have something else to say. But he’s the captain, and he makes his own decisions. 

He ends up serving the rest of the shift, and then he goes down to see Bones, giving Spock some space and trying to figure out how to say this. 

He doesn’t want to make it an order. 

But when he asks, he desperately wants Spock to say _yes_.


	6. *

Jim returns to his quarters only to find Spock pretending to sleep. Because he can see the stress still wracking Spock’s body, Jim doesn’t press the issue, just follows suit, and waits for Spock to open up again.

When Jim wakes up in the faux-morning, he goes straight to the washroom. As soon as he comes out, Spock goes in, promptly locking the door. 

Jim could override it, of course. Instead, he knocks, gets no answer, and wraps harder on it, calling, “You’re being illogical!”

To which Spock says nothing, probably because Spock must know it’s true. 

Jim doesn’t like the bridge as much without Spock on it, but he can tell from the way Spock was twitching and tossing all night that he’s not well enough for it. Jim’s shift is tiresome and boring. They head to an Andorian starbase for a regular tune-up, and Jim listens to Scotty’s complaints about others touching his ship and Bones’ complaints about ignoring the issue. But Jim’s actually grateful when Bones spends half the day hovering around him. He knows Bones comes from a place of concern, and he tries to explain that while he knows he can’t delay the issue forever, forcing it on Spock when Spock’s already in pain feels so wrong. But it’ll be worse when pon farr hits and Spock, apparently, goes mindless. So at the end of his shift, he’s resolved to do it. 

When the doors of his quarters open, he immediately knows there’s something wrong. 

The couch is upended. There’s a PADD with a cracked screen in the corner. When he reaches the bedroom space, his chessboard is lying in broken chunks across the floor, the pieces scattered. 

Spock’s sitting in the corner, knees drawn up to his chest with his arms around them and his face buried. He’s wearing an oversized nightshirt of Jim’s and shivering. 

It’s obvious what happened. Knowing as much doesn’t ease the trepidation; Jim still feels like he doesn’t really _know_ anything. He can’t fathom what Spock’s going through, but it looks painful. He walks over to Spock as slowly and quietly as he can, slipping down to his knees. 

He leans over and gently kisses the top of Spock’s head, trying to convey his warmth and that, no matter what, he’ll _be there_ whenever Spock needs him. 

Spock, shuddering harder after the contact, finally looks up. Then it’s as if his body calms, skin settling down, legs unfurling, arms deflating. Jim asks softly, “Do you want to talk about it now?”

Spock opens his mouth, eyebrows knit together. No sound comes out, and he shakes his head. 

Frowning, Jim whispers, “That’s too bad.” He didn’t want to do it like this. He sighs. There isn’t much of a choice. He picks up Spock’s hand in two of his, holding it and shifting so he can press them all together, sharing warmth. He can hear Spock’s breath holding. “We’re mating, Spock. Whatever we have to do to get you through this. I want to do it, and I want _you_.” He’s about to add that if Spock would prefer, he’s also willing to take the ship at maximum warp to a Vulcan colony—perhaps they’ll take care of him—but Spock abruptly shakes his head.

“...Do not... want to hurt you...” Spock’s voice is raspy. 

Jim asks, “Do you want me?”

Spock looks like he’s in so much pain. 

But he nods. 

Jim sighs again and mumbles, “Let’s clean you off.” Because he’s covered in sweat, and there’re a few slivers of green on his leg: shallow, already healed but crusted cuts, probably from causing destruction. Spock doesn’t move, so Jim shifts around and carefully scoops him up, curling Spock easily into him. 

Spock’s heavy, but Jim’s strong. The bathroom door opens automatically for him. He sort of wishes he had a bath for this, but starships aren’t equipped with them; they take up too much space. Jim makes a mental note for the next time they find a planet with baths: take Spock for a soak.

As it is, he strips his own t-shirt over Spock’s head, and he unties the collar around Spock’s neck. He puts both items on the counter, while Spock remains silent, almost sullen, mostly austere and a little ashamed. He’s a bit more reminiscent of the way he usually is, but even quieter. When Jim strips his own clothes off, he doesn’t miss the way Spock’s eyes follow the movement before purposely trying to look away. 

Jim ushers Spock into the shower stall, turning on the tap. This isn’t a job for a sonic shower—this requires water. Or maybe he just likes seeing Spock wet. It doesn’t matter—Spock doesn’t protest. Jim holds Spock in front of the spray, then ducks in front of him, fishing through the different bottles on the wire shelf hanging from the nozzle. He’ll just use regular soap and won’t bother with Spock’s hair, just something quick to set Spock up for whatever’s to come and hopefully to help him relax. Jim gets a handful and turns to rub that soap on Spock, starting with Spock’s shoulders. 

Spock’s looking down, eyes closed, so the water hits his forehead and runs away, Jim standing to the side to avoid it. The spray runs down Spock’s chest, riveting over his hard lines and hitting Jim as it streams down the side of Spock’s leg. The soap becomes suds under Jim’s fingertips, and he mumbles, “I know... this is supposed to be permanent, and it seems fast, but... we don’t have a lot of choice. And maybe you’ll grow to love me enough to justify whatever connection it gives us...”

Spock exhales deeply, shoulders slumping. Jim’s running the soap around his stomach, and when Jim reaches over to get Spock’s other side, he temporarily blocks the water. It’s very hot—he knows Spock likes it that way. The steam’s already starting to gather around them. He reaches behind Spock to scrub at Spock’s shoulder blades and the curve of his spine, every bit of skin. Jim kneels down to get Spock’s legs. It’s a quick, shallow job, but it’s something. Some of the soap is washed away immediately, but other parts linger in areas where the water can’t reach. Jim straightens up and turns around, getting more soap. 

Strong arms wrap around him, latching onto his front and almost making him stumble back, except there’s nowhere to go. He can feel Spock, warm and full against him, Spock’s head over his shoulder. 

Spock hisses in his ear, almost too low to decipher, “It is not too fast. A Vulcan knows their t’hy’la when they meet. When they are held. I...” He sucks in a trembling breath, and he stops. His slick skin presses into the side of Jim’s face, nuzzling cheek-to-cheek. Jim doesn’t know what a t’hy’la is. But he can guess. 

He mumbles, “You should’ve told me.” But he strokes Spock’s arms to indicate he’s not mad, the water still hitting over his shoulder. Spock’s head is moving—Jim can’t tell if it’s more nuzzling or a nod.

“You are a starship captain. I am your servant. It is not... I had assumed the feeling was... somehow misguided, perhaps my half-human genetics confusing my Vulcan senses...”

It doesn’t matter that it’s not proper, not permitted. Jim asks what does matter: “Did you want it to be wrong?”

“No.”

Jim’s not sure Spock can see his grin, so he turns his head to the side, nuzzling back. Feeling Spock wrapped all around him is nice, warm, and right. He can feel Spock’s feet brushing his, Spock’s knees pressing into the grooves of his, Spock’s dick pressing, half-hard, into his ass. Spock’s arms are still tight around Jim’s stomach, as though Spock’s afraid if he loosens the hold, Jim will slip away. 

Jim has to tug at them to get them off, and then he can turn around, still touching as much as possible, flattening their fronts together. He tilts his head to fit his lips against Spock’s, plush and waiting. He can feel Spock’s fever in it, but he doesn’t open his mouth, and when Spock’s tongue probes at his, Jim still stays closed. It takes a minute for Spock to finally pull away, and Jim chuckles fondly, “Let’s not get you worked up until we’re out of a slippery washroom.”

Spock asks, “Are you absolutely certain you wish to do this, jeopardizing everything?”

“Yes, and if you doubt me again, I’m going tell Bones all about your big secret.”

Spock’s eyebrows knit together. He clearly doesn’t understand the relevance of the threat, but Jim just lets it hang in the air, stepping back around Spock and out of the way of the water. He’s not going to bother with soap for himself. He’s half hard too, and he’s glowing with the confession, that he’s this... t’hy’la, or whatever it is. That Spock wants him, that Jim’ll get Spock. His patience has run out, and he reaches up to tilt the nozzle, purposely spraying it over the spare patches of bubbles clinging to Spock’s skin. 

Then he playfully swats Spock’s ass as an indication to turn around, and he finishes Spock’s back. As soon as it’s done, Jim turns off the water. Shower sex is always fun, but... he gets the distinct impression they’re not going to be careful enough for it. He pulls Spock out of the stall and gets a towel, drying Spock off. Spock’s eyes look brighter than when they stepped in: more alive and ready. 

When they’re both dry, they leave the bathroom, and Jim tugs Spock by the hand to the bed, turning him around and gently pushing him down onto it. Spock crawls backwards. The blankets are a mess—he probably tugged at them earlier. Jim scrunches them up and pushes them to the back, so that Spock’s laying in just the sheets, head in the pillows. He spreads out, eyes never leaving Jim. 

Jim stretches over him like a predator, hungry and ready. He has to will himself to be smooth, to be soft, to take care of Spock when Spock’s vulnerable. Spock’s not trembling anymore, but his shoulders are tight with the anticipation—Jim can see all his taut muscles beneath his skin. If Jim could, he’d kiss and caress and lick _everything,_ but he thinks that might be cruel. It would take too long, be too much of a tease. He gives Spock a fleeting kiss, leaving his palm against Spock’s cheek while he stretches to reach the nightstand, the lube already sitting out. 

He pours a bit on his fingers and takes Spock’s hand, adding a bit to that too. He caps the bottle and puts it aside, murmuring, “Help me.” He guides his fingers down Spock’s body, leaving a sticky trail through Spock’s dark curls and following the curve of his ass. Spock’s fingers hesitantly follow, legs spreading. 

The two of them work together to rub around the puckered muscles of Spock’s entrance, trying to coax it open. Jim can hear Spock managing his breathing, and he can see the effect on Spock’s hole. It twitches beautifully, parting just wide enough for Jim to take Spock’s index finger and push it inside. Spock has a sharp intake of breath, and Jim pats the back of his hand. 

Spock slowly sinks to his knuckle, and Jim can see as the bone shifts in the back of his hand that that finger’s moving around. A bit more attention to the brim, and Jim’s pushing his finger in too, right alongside Spock’s. Spock makes a needy, keening noise that cuts off abruptly. When Jim looks up, Spock’s holding his other hand over his mouth. It’s a shame not to see those pretty lips, but Jim’s feeling benevolent and allows it. 

He focuses back on stretching Spock slowly apart, moving his finger away from Spock’s and then back again. He can feel the way it makes Spock shiver, and he knows Spock has a thing for hands, has a thing for _touching._ Jim wriggles his finger around and traces up and down Spock’s, until he thinks Spock’s wide enough to take a cock. 

He takes Spock’s wrist and slowly pulls Spock out. Spock wipes his hand off in the sheets. Jim doesn’t bother. Jim climbs back up to all fours, lifting Spock’s thighs over his and coating his cock in the leftover lube. He positions his tip at Spock’s entrance, and he looks up, whispering, “This’ll mate us?”

Spock shakes his head slowly, but his heels dig into Jim’s back, and he rasps, somehow both even and pleading, “Take me.”

Jim nods, pushing in. 

It’s like come home after being trapped in the desert. Jim releases a loud sigh he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, sinking slowly further and further, arching his back and angling his hips just so. He knows Spock’s body like the back of his hand, and it’s as delicious as it always is. Wonderful and just right. Like it was made to house some part of Jim. He leans down so he can nuzzle into Spock’s cheek, kissing his jaw line, holding him lightly around the middle. Jim keeps one elbow over on the mattress so he’s not crushing Spock with his body weight. Right when he finally manages to get all the way inside, Spock’s hand slowly reaches for his face. The soft pads of Spock’s fingertips land along the side of his cheek and his forehead, applying minimal pressure but firm. Jim doesn’t know what exactly is going on, but he can guess. Spock purrs, “ _This_ will mate us.”

Bit by bit, Jim begins to understand what Spock means. 

Something small, something warm, seems to trickle through all the places they’re connected. Mostly Spock’s fingertips on his face, but all of their bodies too. Their chests, their stomachs, Jim’s cock held tight inside Spock. Everywhere their skin brushes becomes warm, feels like it’s glowing, is almost translucent: spots for _them_ to flow into each other. Spock’s entire _being_ ebbs into him: an ocean of memories and thoughts and emotion. 

Jim’s unconsciously reciprocating, and they mix through in the middle, tangling together. Jim has to close his eyes under the gentle rush, sinking down and curling into Spock. Spock seems to be doing the same. His free hand wraps around Jim’s back, holding Jim in. 

Jim can see a desert, a barren wasteland with beautiful architecture, strange structures and stranger plants. He sees the blur of people passing, most with glossy, dark hair. The air is particularly clean. Some things are messy, incomplete, and odd details are glistening and sharp—a rock underfoot or the shrill scream of a passing bird. Then he’s in a dark building with concave floors, like he’s sitting in a carved out bubble, images flashing all around. There are more blurs along the outside. He can’t hear what they’re saying, though he knows they’re speaking, but their auras are confused and crushing. 

He’s in a rigid ship, held, all alone, in confinement, or what feels like it. He gets news that makes him want to cry, but his tear ducts aren’t working. He sinks to the floor, the world growing taller all around him. He’s in a packed shuttle with others all standing completely still, solemn, and the only communication is whispered rumours. He’s on solid ground and it doesn’t feel right. 

He’s in a small cell with everything gone; he can’t see it, but he knows it. He’s done something wrong. He feels like he’s choking, but he doesn’t care enough to breathe, and relaxing makes it easier. He can feel the sadness in the air, but he doesn’t want to do that. He calls on his training, on everything he was ever taught, lessons he doesn’t quite remember having but maybe did. Or was that from the desert? He’s stoic and cold and unaffected. This is what had to be. It will get him where he wants, the part he can have. He will simply serve his purpose. 

But then he’s in a darker cell with hands on him and it’s horrible and they’re all around him, nattering on and probing and poking him and forcing him into shapes his body isn’t meant to fill. But he stays, unwilling to roll the dice again. He knows what the _Terran_ Empire is like, and he’s both a part of that horror and not. Bit by bit, he feels his humanity chipped away from him, and only through dead behaviour is he spared the agony of lessons, and the haze of it all surrounds him like a coal-thick cloud. Others go through it far easier, but things never seem easy for Spock. He sends in other applications but is always denied, like he knew he would be—he’s a _Vulcan threat_. He has a better chance through the lessons he has and sticks to those. He fails every time and tries _harder_ , takes more, subsides into nothingness for a glimpse of stars and forbidden, emotional release.

And bright lights are back. Total darkness. Something around his eyes. The blindfold’s coming off, and he sees his own face, crystal clear and vivid. His chest constricts. 

There’s a rush of other memories, things he remembers, sides of things he doesn’t, the other end, and he feels momentarily omniscient: he sees his whole world from the opposite perspective. Nothing’s that different. Things are getting better, better. Spiking up until he’s exactly where he is, buried to the hilt in the one person he’s ever really wanted, and Spock’s fingers stay on him. His whole body is alive and tingling but numb and heavy, and he’s hyper aware of the breath rushing into him, filling up his brain and twisting down to his lungs. Spock’s eyes are wide and beautiful. 

Jim closes his eyes. He needs a minute. Spock’s fingers slip away, and Jim collapses on top of Spock. He feels like they’re _one_. He knows Spock got all of him too, saw Iowa and the Academy and every world he’s stepped on. Jim grins before the thought even hits him: Spock can’t question Jim’s want for this anymore. Jim kisses Spock’s cheek, wholly overwhelmed. 

It helps that Spock doesn’t seem to be faring much better. He presses close to Jim too, fingers sliding, feather-light, along Jim’s skin. Jim’s hips are trembling. He pulls out slowly and pushes in even slower. He watches Spock’s face for the reaction: a sharp intake of breath, a quick twitch under both eyes, eyebrows knitting momentarily. 

Spock lifts up to kiss him. Jim lets their mouths meld like they’re supposed to, like the rest of them has. Spock’s tongue tastes as good as it feels. He can feel Spock’s eyelashes lower against his cheeks. He starts to rock his hips, pulling back, pushing in. Spock croons at the sensation and hisses into his ear, “It won’t stay like this.”

“I know,” Jim mumbles, because somehow he just _does_ ; Spock’s fingers are gone, but the bond’s still there. “I just want to make love to you first.”

Spock exhales steadily, trusting and content. Jim knows it is. Jim snakes his hands between them to find Spock, hard and pulsing, calling to Jim’s fingers. Jim strokes it in time with his thrusts. He tries to kiss Spock for as much of the time as he can manage, inhaling Spock’s raw scent: some gorgeous thing he can’t explain. He’s never felt this connected to anyone in his life, and he can’t even begin to describe it. He slides his free hand over Spock’s shoulder, coming to trace Spock’s throat. In this moment, he doesn’t ever want to put the collar back on. It was hot, yes, but that’s not something he can wrap his head around now; they’re in a different space. Maybe that’ll change. He feels Spock’s fear, knows it will. The pon farr will hit harder. 

For now, Jim just takes Spock warm and tender, for as long as he possibly can.

* * *

Spock was right; it doesn’t stay saccharine. Jim’s been lying next to Spock for only twenty minutes or so before Spock starts to tremble again, and cuddling into Jim doesn’t seem to be quite enough. Jim comms Bones to let him know they’ll be on medical leave for a few days. Next, Jim lets the night crew know that Sulu will have the conn in the morning and they’ll need to reshuffle someone else to the helm. Jim still hasn’t picked a new first officer since the last one didn’t make it out of a Klingon skirmish a month ago. Nevertheless, he’s sure his crew will manage.

Then he gets water, taking some himself and practically forcing Spock to drink. Then Spock half-begs, half pulls Jim into another round, far more vigorous than the first. They’re just lying there afterwards while Jim tries to recover and Spock just seems to get worse and worse. 

Another particularly hard round happens, where Spock rides Jim with such force that Jim’s not sure which of them is making them move, who’s actually _topping_ who. Spock has several moments where he seems entirely foreign, alien, and even though Jim can _feel_ him, physically and mentally, Spock seems unable to speak. Other times, he’s perfectly lucid. When he comes, he covers all of Jim’s stomach, and he admires his handiwork with a sort of feral pride. 

Jim dozes off after that. The strain on his body’s too much; he needed a break after the first round and never got one. Every subsequent time has just been pushing him further and further into exhaustion. Spock warned him of this, and he didn’t listen. He should’ve gone to Bones for some vitamins or hyposprays or... something. 

Instead, he comes to with an arm around his waist, and he realizes, too late, that he’s being hiked up onto all fours. He looks over his shoulder, and a second later, Spock’s on top of him. Jim gasps as the new weight pushes him down. He hasn’t been mounted like this for a long, long time. 

He never took that well to it. Jim’s a man of control, and if it were anyone else, he’d buck them off. But it’s _Spock_ , draping sensually around him and nuzzling into the back of his head. Spock kisses his cheek almost tenderly and purrs, “I am _sorry_ , Captain.” The way Spock’s hard cock throbs against his ass, sliding through his crack, doesn’t feel very sorry. 

But Jim sucks in a breath. He says, “You better prepare me,” through grit teeth. The bottle of lube should still be on the bed somewhere. Somehow, he knew this was coming. But actually facing it is a bit different, and Jim has to tell himself not to be ridiculous. 

Spock growls into his ear, “I would never hurt my _t’hy’la_.” He says it with such a hiss and tenacity that Jim shivers, and Spock begins to nibble at his ear. Apparently exhaustion doesn’t count as hurt.

One of Spock’s hands remains under Jim’s stomach, tracing over to his nipples, starting to rub them soothingly. The other, Jim can feel sliding onto his thigh, cold and slick with lube. It finds Jim’s hole easily, like Spock’s mapped all of Jim’s body and knows exactly where to go. Jim tries to look over his shoulder, wanting eye contact. Wanting to make sure Spock’s careful. Spock’s eyes are almost entirely closed, but a sliver of dark brown watches Jim, and Jim clutches desperately onto that contact. 

Spock pokes the first finger inside before Jim’s expecting it. He nearly squeaks at the intrusion; it’s unforgiving. It doesn’t hurt, but it does feel strange, and a little uncomfortable. Jim wills himself to relax. He wants to give Spock this, and he wants to be able to give as good as he gets. Spock makes a pleased sort of sound at the cooperation, and Jim’s rewarded with a flurry of kisses along his cheek. They help distract Jim from the second finger that quickly joins the first, the two scissoring him apart. He can take it rough. He just doesn’t want to and isn’t used to being on the receiving end of rough. It’s odd to have Spock’s nails scraping just a little too hard across his skin, Spock’s fingers wrenching him apart, Spock’s teeth cutting into his ear. His cool, collected Vulcan has become a bristling ball of weight and power, warming Jim up and hissing in Jim’s ear, “You are so _pretty, Jim._ ”

Jim growls, “Handsome.” Spock makes a purr of agreement, slipping a third finger in only briefly. Then they’re all coming out, and Jim braces himself, tries to hold still, tries to stay up. He’s seen Spock’s dick, felt it in his hand, and he knows how long and thick it is. It’s not going to go easy. The spongy tip presses at his opened hole, and he has the curious feeling of knowing it’s not a part of him but wanting to suck it all in. 

Spock wrenches Jim’s chin around to awkwardly seal their lips, right as they slam together. Jim’s impaled almost all at once, as much as it can go. He screams into Spock’s mouth, face scrunching up. Spock’s _huge_. Jim feels like it’s already incredibly far inside him, and with a languid groan, Spock’s pushing farther. The girth parts Jim’s walls more than he thinks he should be able to stretch. It’s warm, and it’s _pulsing._ He can feel it throbbing along with Spock’s heartbeat inside him, and it’s a wonderful, incredible feeling. The whole thing is a conflicting mess of strange and uncomfortable and very, very good. Spock slips all the way in and slithers halfway out, slamming back in at a different angle that makes Jim arch and shriek—that hits just the right spot. A burst of pleasure erupts inside Jim, only intensified when Spock hits it a second time. 

Spock hits it _every_ time. He starts to pound brutally into Jim, over and over, so hard that if Spock weren’t holding him up, Jim thinks he might fall over. He’s already breathing hard from the strain from earlier, but Spock’s knocking all the oxygen right out of him. Spock pulls almost all the way out and slams all the way in, pummeling his ass and sending him into ecstasy on every thrust. He starts to arch wantonly into Spock, his nipples already hard under Spock’s fingers and his neck pink and full of teeth marks. He almost wants to praise Spock for this intense sexual prowess, but he’s being fucked too hard to say anything coherent. 

Spock doesn’t have that problem. He moans with pleasure and snarls, “You are so hot like this, my pretty little t’hy’la...” Jim turns his head to glower at being called, ‘little,’ but it’s knocked off his face a second later with another hard thrust and bliss that makes him see stars. His face is already flushed, pupils dilated and eyelids heavy, mouth barely able to close. He needs the air too much. They’re wet from being kissed. Spock nips at his cheek more and slides those long fingers beneath him, further up his body, the other hand firmly gripping his waist. Spock’s hand wraps around his throat. Jim almost chokes preemptively—it’s hard enough to breath as it is. 

“I would _love_ to see you in a collar, Captain,” Spock purrs, somewhere between predatory and adoring. “The dark symbol of power would look so good around your creamy skin. I want to collar you. Make you mine. Mark you as _mine._ ” Spock’s emotions are clearly unstable as hell, and as Spock fucks Jim hard, he croons, “You are so good to me... letting me fuck you like an animal or like you’re my _pet_...”

It takes a good deal of effort for Jim to pant between thrusts, “The next time you... solve a problem on the bridge like last time, I’ll... maybe I’ll wear that collar for you... _aahhhhh..._ ” And then he’s lost again in the rapture of being fucked and taken, Spock’s hands all over his body. Spock moans gorgeously at the promise, curling even tighter into Jim, face buried in his neck. He can feel Spock’s ragged breath warming his shoulder, feel Spock’s powerful hips pistoning into his, feel Spock’s strong thighs on either side of his. His knees are getting sore and his hands are finding it difficult to stay up, fingers clutching uselessly at the sheets. He feels like his ass is getting split open, and it’s _amazing_.

He’s never been fucked so well in his life. If he’d been topped like this before, maybe he wouldn’t have been so stern with his position in the bedroom. Or maybe it’s just because it’s _Spock_ , still thick in his head like a dreamy haze, that makes everything wonderful. Every time Spock’s all the way inside him, he feels _complete_. He’s never been so full. He didn’t think he could come anymore after all the other rounds—he didn’t very much, last time—but somehow, his cock’s going from a lazy half-hard to a thick, rock-solid finish. Spock doesn’t even touch it, but Spock doesn’t have to. The cock in his ass is doing enough. The fingers along his throat and his hips do enough. Spock plays his body beautifully. Spock kisses him and kisses him and kisses him more, moaning, “ _Jim_ ,” again and again in a steady mantra. 

Jim can barely breathe and yet can’t stop himself from begging, “Fuck, _Spock,_ fuck me, make me come...”

Spock seems to take it like a personal challenge. Somehow, he picks up, speed increasing, getting harder, until every thrust is bruising and fast enough that Jim doesn’t even have time to wail like he wants to. He throws his head back onto Spock’s shoulder, mouth open wide. He can feel his cock getting ready, feel the orgasm building in his stomach. His body can’t take it anymore.

Then Spock grabs a hold of his cock, and it’s all Jim can do not to shriek bloody murder. He comes immediately, the force of it shorting out his vision, the shockwaves wracking his whole body. He shakes with the effects, his spine arching. Spock bites into his shoulder, hard, like marking him, and that makes it even _better_. Jim’s barely even done when Spock follows over the edge, growling erotically and filling him right up with hot, Vulcan cum, just as much as the first load, enough that Jim thinks he’ll burst. 

Jim collapses a second later, slipping off Spock’s engorged cock and falling right into the pillows. Spock instantly settles down behind him, scooping him up tight. 

Jim feels colossally empty afterwards. He can feel himself leaking. That was... one of the most intense sessions he’s ever had. He’s never, ever heard of a servant talking to a ranked officer the way Spock did, especially their owner, and even if it was brief, it’s... startling. 

What’s even odder is that Jim doesn’t mind, not even a little bit. It was hot. He meant what he said. Spock mumbles, “Sorry,” evidently spent—for now—and therefore less animal. It’s not his usual ‘I apologize,’ but it’s something. 

With a strike of déjà vu, Jim mumbles, “Don’t ever apologize for amazing sex.”

Spock just watches him, both fierce and loving.

* * *

They fall into a hazy pattern that Jim can barely keep up with, but he didn’t climb his way through Academy training and claw up the Empire and fight his way to the head of the armada’s best ship only to burn out on sex. He drinks when he can, manages to synthesize a few things here and there, and sleeps when Spock lets him. He’s so covered in cum and sweat that the air is almost thick enough to cut, but still Spock goes on. 

Just for a change of pace, Jim pushes Spock onto the living room couch, and he sits on the floor between Spock’s spread legs. He has to constantly push at Spock’s hips and glare; apparently, Spock doesn’t think this will satiate him. They’ve switched around and Spock’s taken him on every surface, in every position, while Jim’s done the same. But his body can’t take another round right now, and he can feel Spock’s _need_ pushing through the bond. 

So he tilts his head over Spock’s crotch, breathing onto the hard dick in front of him and watching it twitch at the feeling. He glances up and purrs, “You’re going to like this.” Spock looks unconvinced, even though they should both already know it’s true..

Spock nods slowly, eyes burning. 

Jim licks the tip and smirks as Spock shudders. Then it’s a plush kiss. Then he’s tonguing all down the shaft, massaging the base with one hand and Spock’s balls with the other. Spock groans in appreciation, legs spreading even wider. He looks and sounds and tastes _delicious._

Jim kisses a wet trail back to the top and opens up, looking straight up as he slides down. Spock breaks eye contact for half a second, face lost in the pleasure. Jim slips eagerly down his cock, holding his hips still and almost gagging on his size. It’s good to feel it pulsing in Jim’s mouth again, but as soon as he thinks it, Spock tries to buck up. Startled but managing, Jim’s not sure he’ll be able to stop the next one—Spock’s so full of _power_ like this. It’s intoxicating. Jim figures that having a powerful attendant only makes him more powerful, and he smirks around Spock’s shaft, inordinately proud. 

He can’t take all of Spock—not like this—not when Spock doesn’t have the self-control to not fuck his throat raw before another several rounds. Jim squeezes and strokes the parts he’s not reaching, his fingers tracing each of Spock’s veins and petting through the coarse pubic hair above. Several times, Jim gets lost in the details, pulling mostly off and shoving mostly on, and he has to scramble to focus. His own cock isn’t hard right now—it needs more than a nap. But this isn’t about him anyway. 

It’s about Spock, and Spock seems to be enjoying the treatment _very_ much. He’s clearly doing his best to behave, to not hump Jim’s face wildly, but it’s clearly difficult. Jim tries to reward him with as much pleasure as possible. Jim sucks and strokes and bobs, pouring everything he has into giving Spock another orgasm. He can’t explain it, but he wants another load for himself too. He’s not sure if he wants Spock to come down his throat or on his face, but he does know he wants Spock’s cum. It gives him a renewed sense of vigor, and he bobs faster, hollowing out his cheeks and running his tongue all over his lover’s cock. 

He can feel Spock’s orgasm before it comes, both through the bond and the walls of his mouth. Spock moans in ecstasy and bursts inside, a huge splatter hitting Jim’s tongue and the back of his throat. He pulls off a second later to let it finish all over him, gobs hitting his cheek and streaks landing across the bridge of his nose. He closes his eyes just in time, and he keeps his mouth open. He can hear Spock’s delight.

As soon as it’s stopped, he squints one eye open, and Spock’s rubbing himself into Jim’s other cheek. 

Sighing, Jim shifts to kiss Spock’s inner thigh. Then he mumbles, “You can keep rubbing and coming on me if you like, but I need another break.” And he closes his eyes, Spock’s musk full in his nostrils and Spock’s thigh warm against the side of his face.

When he wakes up, he’s in the bed.

* * *

Pon farr is just as vigorous as Spock said, but even when it’s agonizing, it’s always _wonderful._ When his body can’t feel the bliss, his mind does instead. They tumble all over each other, again and again, until Spock’s finally starting to nap with Jim, dozing off for stray periods. He licks Jim clean in some places, his tongue almost ticklish, but Jim’s too hazy to react. Sometimes Jim watches him sleep, sometimes it’s the other way around, sometimes they sleep together. At one point, Spock sleeps for many, many hours. Jim checks his heartbeat, checks his breathing.

Jim can feel through the bond that it’s _over._

Jim sleeps for a bit too. Then he calls Bones to check on Spock, and he lets Bones in, Bones wrinkling his nose at the overwhelming smell and turning red at the sight. But he follows Jim’s orders, and Jim takes a shower. 

Jim takes several showers. Bones gives him some stimulants. Bones says Spock will be alright. Bones asks if Jim’s been getting the bridge updates, and Jim says yes, though in truth he’s only skimmed them, and he ushers Bones out. He falls back to the bed, now half-dressed, and gently nudges Spock’s shoulder until Spock blearily half-opens his eyes. Jim’s got the lights on thirty.

“How’re you feeling?” Jim asks, gently brushing Spock’s bangs off his face.

Spock’s lips twitch in a rare smile before it dissipates. For a moment, he’s quiet. Then he mumbles simply, “Better.”

“I don’t want to leave you.” Jim leans down so their foreheads can touch, so he can rub their noses together and murmurs centimeters from Spock’s lips, “But I have to get back to work. You should stay here and rest. I’ll clean you when I get back, and maybe you can join me tomorrow.”

“You should rest,” Spock repeats. But Jim shakes his head. He’ll probably just be slumping in his chair all day, but he can’t ignore duty forever, and he knows he’s well enough to serve. He kisses Spock lightly. 

He pulls away from Spock, fingers lingering for as much contact as possible. He feels Spock’s eyes on him as he finishes getting dressed, and he can feel Spock’s approval and devotion in his head. Once dressed, he has to will himself to leave. He leaves the lights at thirty, knowing Spock can adjust them. 

The hallway seems ridiculously bright, the air ridiculously clean, and the other... people... are something of a shock. 

When Jim steps onto the bridge, he does it as professionally as possible, standing tall and keeping his chin up. He did miss his crew. Chekov announces immediately, “Keptin on zhe bridge!” And everyone looks at him, Sulu springing out of the captain’s chair. 

There’s a chorus of, “Welcome back, Sir,” and other such things, and a few knowing looks and even a few lewd comments Jim laughingly indulges in. The chair is a bit awkward to sit in; even after Bones’ treatment, his ass is very, very sore. 

He sits nonetheless, and he watches the stars on the viewscreen as they head to Nibiru, a tumultuous, M-class planet they’re going to get to watch fall apart. The ship seems to be running just fine, and his shift is easy. 

They’re going to be rendezvousing with a ship tomorrow, apparently, and Starfleet comms to confirm. They’re trading a few personnel and supplies—the Tellarites have argued with the Empire yet again, and Andor’s been given permission to deliver a little ‘warning’ message. A few members of Jim’s security request transfer, and Jim grants it to all but one. His bridge science officer approaches him near the end of the shift, and as she’s Andorian, Jim already knows the request. Jim grants it—he doesn’t know her that well, and while he never likes to lose a crewmember, he knows he’ll just get more off the Starfleet vessel. Besides, as someone who prefers to enjoy all of life’s pleasures, he finds the Tellarites just as irritating as everyone else does. 

As soon as his shift’s over, he’s practically running back to his quarters, everything where he left it, except for Spock’s open arms.

* * *

Spock looks particularly stunning in his blue tunic. When they stand next to each other, Jim thinks it compliments his own eyes. The dark collar compliments Spock’s. 

They’ll stand together often. Jim’s already hovering mostly at Spock’s station, checking that Spock’s getting the hang of it—he’s never ‘served’ on a Starfleet vessel before. He still hasn’t; this is all off record. But Jim needs someone adept in the sciences at his side, and Spock works the new station with stunning ease and efficiency. 

Jim also needs a first officer he can trust, and he can’t think of anyone he trusts more than his mate. Even though they’re not alone, not touching, not even focusing on it, Jim can still feel their connection most times. He can’t exactly hear specific words—they’re not telepathic—but he can sense impressions and feelings. Sulu gets the official title to look good on his record, but Spock gets the honourary title, the ability to be by Jim’s side in everything. Sulu’s content that way—he gets the digital perks but none of the verbal conflict or physical risks. 

It’s hard for Jim to tear himself away, but he has to—Spock clearly doesn’t need the shadowing. 

Spock delivers a report a dozen minutes later, and he does it by walking over and depositing himself in Jim’s lap. Jim scoops him up and happily listens. Jim rubs his tenting pants against Spock’s bottom, and Spock goes over the number of geological interests on Nibiru. Jim enjoys Spock’s deep voice until he decides that can wait, and he cuts Spock off with a sharply ordered, “Kiss me.”

Spock does so, a hidden half-smiled buried against his mouth.


End file.
